


Nimbus

by Brim



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Soulstober, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 35,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brim/pseuds/Brim
Summary: A collection of short fics for the soulstober 2020 tag. Mostly Bloodborne and Dark Souls stories and occurrences.Theme of the day + characters involved in each chapters title.
Comments: 199
Kudos: 43





	1. dark - micolash, yahar'gul hunter

_Splish, splash. Splish, splash._

Central Yharnam’s sewer system was possibly the most dreadful post to be stationed at, but as a Yahar’gul Hunter they had little choice on the matter. If anything, voicing their concerns was always a bad idea – normally, Yahar’gul hunters were sent in groups of two or three, but upon expressing their displeasure with the post, they were sent to recover a subject completely alone.

And now here they were, dragging some unconscious bum up the ladder entirely on their own. With a clever use of rope and weights, it was not entirely too difficult to drag the poor sap up, but they were more concerned about accidentally _suffocating_ their victim. After all, there were few ways to upset Mensis more than delivering a corpse instead of a subject for their treatment.

Somehow they made it back to the dungeons in Yahar’gul both without being noticed and without killing their target.

The hunter exhaled and lowered their hood, revealing the iron helmet. While they understood the reasoning behind the obscuring garb, they still loathed the helmet they were forced to wear, but their employers had been insistent about it. _For their own protection_ , they said, but also something about channeling the power of the cosmos or— they could not bring themselves to care enough once any of the scholars descended in their tangents.

With the prone body strapped to their back, and trying their best to ignore the terrible stench of the dungeons, the hunter made their way towards the chamber.

Curiously enough, the old iron doors were left open, so they simply slipped inside. The chamber was dreadfully dark, only a few tiny oil lamps around the gurney, but otherwise there was nothing else unusual – a barely conscious person strapped to the table with half a dozen or so scholars surrounding them, constantly probing and tending to every single notion, and a few others seated close by and taking notes. An actual nightmare to experience, the hunter knew, but at least Mensis had the decency to deliver mercy kills their failed subjects, instead of keeping them around, like those wretched beings locked in the madhouse that is the Astral Clocktower.

“I have come to deliver a—”

“By the Gods, don’t spook me like that!” One of the scholars squeaked and the hunter saw another one of them make a startled jump off their seat. “No self-respected professional should ever act like this! Least of all a hunter!”

The hunter scoffed. A _professional hunter_ – technically, as a Yahar’gul hunter, they were. Although there was no official recognition for their ranks. There were the hunters of the Old Workshop, then those of the Oto Workshop—and the Healing Church Workshop, and it didn’t even end there! There were the executioners, the hunters of hunters, the league hunters and—

Countless ways to refer to the same thing – a _killer_.

When the hunter was still young and naïve, they hoped to join any of the other workshops, but none of them would take them. A murderer, they called them, and all other manner of insults. However now that Mensis revealed to them the truth about the blood and the beasts, to call them a murderer was arrogance of its highest order. They, whom every night joined the hunt and killed their own. Truly, there was no difference between them and the other hunters – they all hunted beasts, just a different kind of beast.

“Master— Master Micolash, I think you cut the wrong artery.”

“Oh…” Micolash, the man who scolded the hunter, stilled for a few moments and then shrugged. “Oh, well. Use some of the healing blood, I suppose. If we are to follow the example set by our colleagues from the Healing Church, then we know that the more blood the better!”

The hunter folded their arms and frowned. Their expression was obscured due to the helmet, compared to the cages the scholars wore, barely hiding the madness in their eyes.

“Handle them with more care. They’re not pigs for slaughter for Gods’ sake.”

“Oh, hush, hush.” Micolash waved a dismissive hand. “I will not take criticism from a hooligan interrupting my session.”

“Wild beast… no respect for honor or authority,” they heard him mumble, but the scholar’s voice was too loud for that to be considered an attempt at subtlety. “Your payment is at the table over there.” He gestured again.

 _Whatever, old man_ , they turned and went to pick up their bounty, which was a simple bottle of blood. They took a sip to test the quality and the euphoria was immediate – a collapsing sky, an explosion of colors and sense of warmth and elation so deep, they felt like they could float off the ground. They gripped the edge of the table, lest they lost their footing and wasted the good blood, and audibly cursed.

“Good— it’s the good stuff.” But their glee was lost upon the scholars, too busy with their own research. Blearily, they saw one of the student cut open the body with shaking hands, a second student observing the gore with open glee, and another pull out a few eyeballs and—

Perhaps it was their time to leave and return home. Blood this high quality would fetch a generous price at the market and none cared about where it came from as long as you didn’t look like a foreigner.

“Until next time.” Micolash waved a farewell in the middle of their conversation and returned to his observation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, we're off to a good start, I hope?  
> first theme was "dark" and I went for a more of a, "deeds in the dark" interpretation.  
> this hunter is just some random person and I wanted to look a bit into the yahar'gul hunters pov considering...they do what they do,
> 
> \+ the entire mensis debauchery, some random hunter getting high while a person is getting butchered and micolash being upset about politeness


	2. soul - fire keeper, ashen one

_Souls are the source of all life, and whether Undead, or even Hollow, one continues to seek them._

_Let the Fire Keeper transform this sovereignless soul into a source of strength, for to be Unkindled is to be a vessel for Souls._

…

“Ashen one.”

They heard a calm voice. It sounded awfully familiar and distant through the haze of oblivion.

“Ashen one.”

They felt the light pressure of a hand on their shoulder and upon the third time they were called, their eyes snapped open with a start and they looked up towards the Fire Keeper. Her hand retreated a bit – hovering just above their shoulder and the Ashen One found themselves missing the comfort of the warm touch. Weary, tired, exhausted – they’d stripped down to their tunic after they left their armor and weapon at the old blacksmith for repairs, and then sat down next the bonfire in the center of the shrine where they apparently doze off.

“Forgive me, it was not my intention to disturb thee, but perhaps thou ought to reconsider thine position.” They squinted their eyes in confusion at her and watched her lips curl up in the tiniest of smiles.

She sat down next to them and offered her lap. The Ashen One stared at her in muted wonder for a bit, before ultimately shrugging and obliged her proposal. They lowered their head slowly, cautiously over her and settled in carefully, their head pillow by her lap. The Fire Keeper’s hand returned to their shoulder, a light touch steading them as their body relaxed and grew less tense.

They felt the comforting warmth of the fire on their face, the soft fabric of the Fire Keeper’s dress under their cheek and found themselves dozing off again, eyes half-closed and unfocused.

 _I tend to the flame, and I tend to thee_ , she told them when they first stumbled inside the shrine. Countless Undead and Unkindled have been to here and idly, the Ashen One wondered whether they were all treated the same way by the fire keepers and the flame—the same urging to seek embers, souls and Lords—or was them reigning victorious over that fallen champion in the graveyards, some sort of proof of their merit? Where did this hope come from?

“Ashen one, thee has felled another powerful foe,” her voice pulled their consciousness back to wakefulness and they shifted a bit, turning so that they may lie on their back and look up at her. The Fire Keeper had her attention focused on tending the fire, expression unreadable. “Vordt of the Boreal Valley.”

She clarified and the Ashen One winced.

“Indeed.” They said quietly and closed their eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply. The air was suddenly cold despite the proximity of the bonfire.

Iudex Gundyr had been their first foe—their silent judge. Corrupted, but still vigilant at his post, but the berserker knight they found at the High Wall of Lothric was different. Vordt was more of an enraged beast – thrashing and charging in a mindless frenzy around the chamber as they tried their best to not get trampled over or lose the grip of their sword, despite the numbing, agonizing cold.

Their body still felt the chill and aching from the freezing mist surrounding that beast-knight, but the Fire Keeper’s care definitely helped ease their pain. In a way, her gentle touch was more comforting than even the warmth of Estus.

“I spoke to Ludleth—he told me about transposing souls.” The Ashen One said after a long stretch of silence and the Fire Keeper looked down towards them.

“The little lord has given thee sound advice,” it was hard to tell it by her expression, but her tone carried a hint of surprise. “To transpose a soul is to extract it’s true potential.”

“Do you mind if …?”

“Of course not, Ashen one,” her hand remained on their shoulder, its weight reassuring. “These souls are thy strength, Ashen one. The choice of their fate is thine and thine only.”

“Thank you.” They said in earnest and turned to their side, closing their eyes. Eventually peaceful sleep overtook them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> puts a hand on my heart and readily admits I have no idea when to put the thees and the thines and the thys and I just winged it, english is my 2nd language--anyway
> 
> ashen one: world cold and harsh, fire keeper lap warm and soft  
> todays prompt was soul and my brain just did some weird lap pillow connection to here we are,   
> threw in some parallel between gundyr and vordt and some weird metaphor about how you can choose what to do with the boss soul - eat it or make it into a shiny weapon


	3. armor - leonhard, rosaria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some speculations about leonhard's backstory

Rosaria’s chamber was a secluded place – a small oasis amidst the rotting and the depraved taking residence within the Cathedral of the Deep. The Mother’s presence inside her chamber was a steady anchor from the madness and the distinctive, sickly-sweet odor of decay. Even the sight of Rosaria’s reborn, malformed servants wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but a reassurance that all was well, even if it wasn’t.

Leonhard opened his eye and inhaled deeply, ignoring the warmth gathering inside his mask. That was a small discomfort, easily ignorable—nothing compared to the brief loss of time he experienced just now. It was only for only a moment, the smallest of fraction of a second when he was bowing in front of her, head tipped low as he offered his bounty – a generous selection of pale tongues, and then the next moment he was leaning against the wall at the bottom of the chamber, arms crossed and waking up from what seemed to be a standing sleep. Leonhard couldn’t remember the last time he _had_ to sleep.

He quickly collected himself and he laughed at the absurdity. The sound echoed in the chamber, interrupting the grave silence.

“My apologies.” He said seemingly to no one. Rosaria did not even stir.

His cape fluttered dramatically as he abruptly turned and made his way outside of the chamber, heading deeper inside the cathedral. Clad in his battle regalia, Leonhard stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the rotting soldiers, but he did not mind the attention. None could tell or remember about them nowadays, but there was _pride_ in the way he carried himself as a knight of the goddess.

A silver mask and a finely crafted cap to hide his scarred face – injuries sustained in his youth as a noble of Irithyll. Shortly after that tragedy, Leonhard often though about revenge, but the Pontiff was too powerful and his guards were too many.

A dingy garb, so old and worn that its golden embroidery was barely noticeable – Irithyll was cold and its dungeon even colder. It was by pure luck and skills, that Leonhard managed to escape, instead of ending up locked up with the spiteful jailors, or reduced to a mindless slave like the rest of the mages and knights—or worse off, buried alive in the Profaned Capital like the rest of its servants.

A set of battered gauntlet, decorated with silver - it was an old honor for the nobles of Irithyll to serve the gods of Anor Lando, but barely anyone remembered those times nowadays. The memory seemingly decaying worse than the land itself.

An old pair of trousers and boots made from the finest leather – when he followed the deacons to the Cathedral and found Rosaria, abandoned, in one of the chambers, Leonhard didn’t know whether to feel rage or pity. In the end, he settled for determined. For whatever reason, he was offered another chance and he will stand at nothing— and no one, when it comes to fulfilling his vows. It was his duty and responsibility, and it was his alone.

He pulled out his weapon and prepared himself to perform the ritual and invade others’ realm as a phantom. The Crescent Moon Sword’s weight in his hands felt reassuringly real, unlike his fading memories. Leonhard gripped its handle with one hand and took out a red eye orb with his other, almost clutching it. He had to focus back on the hunt.

Leonhard never asked Rosaria for resurrection. How could he when Rosaria, herself, was the one who needed it the most? He needed—he _had_ to protect the goddess, the last remaining one.

He was her weapon and her guard. Her knight. The _Ringfinger_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the theme today is "armor" and I was going to do something solaire and lautrec, but didn't get anything good so swapped it around a bit with a short leonhard character study instead
> 
> I go by the theory that leonhard is irithyll royalty that got fucked over when pontiff sulyvahn took over and his family (along with the nobility in general) used to serve the gods before things went to shit + some sort of non-canon basis that hes kinda a bit not in there entirety due to the passage of time (and maybe hollowing) because of the sudden way he flips his shit on the ashen one and rosaria


	4. demon - oceiros, lothric, lorian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a minor hc that lorian is blind after he received the curse, I dont know why I have it, but I just imagine he cant see much with that crown on his head anyway

Oceiros looked, understandably, quite agitated. Lothric watched the king pace about the chamber like a caged animal, clawed hands squeezed into fists. Occasionally, he gave his son a glare and opened his mouth, as if ready to speak and yell, but quickly gave up and continued his frenzied march.

Lothric tried to appear as nonchalant as possible. He was sitting on a wooden bench. His long robe pooled around his frail body and he busied himself by picking at the ruffled edges of its sleeve. The cloth of his prayer gown had grown faded and patchy – he looked like the ideal image of a martyr, even though he felt like anything but. He felt more like a sinner.

“Your elder brother has fallen ill.” The king finally said and Lothric tensed up. Lothric’s b _rother_ , not Oceiro’s _son_ , as if Lorian was nothing, but an accessory to Lothric. Tools of senseless sacrifice, the both of them were - the thought made his blood boil and reinforced his conviction to abandon the duty forced on him and many other wretched souls, all in order to sustain a decaying age.

His mentor was right. 

“And you saw it fit to come and blame _me_? Is this the respect you’ve chosen to display for your future Lord of Cinder?”

At those words, his father’s anger ignited. Eyes vicious, nostrils flaring up and body twisting unnaturally as he turned to stare down at his son. Lothric’s eyes widened, the grip on his robe’s cloth tightening. Like this, his father could barely contain his human visage. Oceiro’s madness and obsession turned him into a monster – something far worse than the demons Lorian forced himself to execute.

But no matter how angry his father got, he would not physically harm him – after all, Lothric was his precious sacrificial lamb. A Lord of Cinder.

“Lothric!” The king howled. Somehow, Lothric managed to contain an air of indifference and a cool tone. _Spite can be a powerful resource, my boy_ , his mentor once told him.

"Cease this foolishness, Father, it is beneath you."

"How dare you...!" Oceiros chocked out. “How dare you speak to your father like that, I will—”

“You will what, Father?” Lothric asked, tone still surprisingly cordial. “You wish to kill me, like you tried to kill Lorian when you send him against the Demon Prince?”

At that, Oceiros stilled, the rage in his eyes settling down to cold fury.

“No matter,” Lothric sighed. “It makes no difference. This crown you clutch so dearly is crumbling, the very land wasting away.”

“Where is Lorian?” At that sudden diversion, Lothric frowned under the hood and looked away.

"He's alive, but..." _Not well_ , and the younger prince bit his lower lip. It was, after all, easier to blame his father instead of accepting his own fault in Lorian’s condition.

The elder prince fell ill. It was sudden, but Lothric suspected a calculated event, that Lothric’s own curse would spread to Lorian and crippled him. Part of its weight was lifted off Lothric’s shoulders, but now it doomed his brother.

Oceiros continued glaring at him, perhaps still waiting for an answer. Lothric refused to look at him and the silence stretched on until the king clicked his tongue.

“No matter, my child. I have a solution to this.” His tone suddenly sounded pleased and the thought of what Oceiros would do made Lothric recoil in disgust. 

This kingdom was also doomed.

...

The elder prince was bedridden. Lorian was dressed lightly, laying completely motionless. There was no reaction to the servants around his chambers, or the motions around him. To see him this defenseless was a rare, but terrifying sight.

Lothric stepped inside the chamber, hovering almost like a ghost. The servants all tried not to stare at the younger prince.

“Leave us alone.” Lothric’s quiet voice echoed and the servants quickly shuffled out. Once alone, Lothric dragged himself to Lorian’s bed and knelt beside it.

"Lorian..." His elder brother was either asleep or too out of it to respond. His blind eyes were covered with a cloth to ease his pain. Lothric felt a lump in his throat, when he realized that this was all Lorian’s choice and that somehow—somehow, Lorian managed to fulfil his promise.

 _I will be your shield and your protector_ , his brother’s words echoed in his head.

“Foolishness, brother…” Lothric mumbled. Lorian’s head shifted lightly.

"..." His mouth opened, but there was nothing save for an anguished moan.

“Foolishness…” Lothric repeated himself and exhaled sharply. His eyes stung, but no tears came out. He was not meek enough to break right now. He couldn’t afford that after all. “I would have preferred to burn and perish, then to see you in this …state.”

There was guilt, but also vanity in his confession. Lorian was strong. Lorian was reliable. Lorian defeated the Demon Prince and eradicated their forces, sword and armor scorched black, but now he could barely move.

"..." Lorian opened his mouth again and again, no sound came out. The elder prince’s head slowly turned towards him, as if sensing his presence through some sixth sense and _somehow_ , managed to smile. His fingers twitched and Lorian’s hand trembled as he tried to reach up. Lothric quickly grasped it, pulling his hand towards himself and holding it firmly. Lothric felt his brother’s fingers form a weak grip around his own.

Lothric swallowed the lump in his throat and clenched his teeth.

“Listen to me, dear brother…I will—I will abandon the duty. This age, this land…it’s all meaningless and we will not suffer for it,” Lothric spoke hastily, eagerly and he found himself growing breathless. “We will remain here, together. My knowledge, my powers—they are yours.”

“…”

“My dear brother, you have protected me thus far, but now my duty is to protect you.”

_Please._

Lorian stilled and for a brief moment, Lothric wondered whether his brother would forsake him - he would not have blamed him if he did. But instead, Lorian’s hold grew firmer and Lothric felt the warmth of his hands on his cold fingers.

 _We will stand together_ , the elder prince wanted to say, but instead he smiled. _Our fight is not over yet._

Lorian looked content and for once, Lothric did too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> todays theme was demon and I wanted to do something more lorian centric but it ended up being just about the Lothric Family drama  
> (mostly because theres already a pretty good fic about lorian and the demon prince called Burning by maliciousfisheeves on ao3)  
> the demon theme is pretty light in here, and its mostly about how oceiros is worse than the demons 
> 
> lorian and lothric pinky promise to have build a pillow fort while the world rots away
> 
> also something, something, aldia is lothrics mentor, something, coughs at the fact that his mentor was "the first of the scholarrs and doubted the fire linking business" and coughs at the fact that you find aldia Signature Sorcery inside the library


	5. ghost - maria, ludwig

It was a rarity to see Ludwig at the Astral Clocktower, and an even bigger rarity to see the well-mannered hunter appear this openly downcast. He stopped her in the middle of one of the corridors and said immediately.

“My condolences.”

“Pardon?” Maria blinked. Ludwig furrowed his brows, squinting his eyes in confusion.

“Have you not heard?” He asked. Maria shook her head. She watched him swallow nervously and saw the slight panic creep up his posture as he fidgeted. It would have been amusing to see the respected leader of the Healing Church hunters act like this if not for what he said next. “—The massacre at Cainhurst.”

Upon hearing that, Maria was stunned to silence, eyes wide.

“A few nights ago—that fanatic Logarius and his band of executioners stormed the castle and massacred the nobles.”

“What of—what of the knights protecting the castle?” She nodded for him to continue and Ludwig cleared his throat.

“They were overwhelmed. We’ve received word that a great number of executioners, including Logarius himself, have also fallen.” He explained. Perhaps in an effort to fulfil his role as messenger in earnest, Ludwig tried to be as throughout as possible in his recollection of the dreadful news. “But we don’t know how many are left alive on either side.”

 _Well, surely the Queen is alive for such is her curse_ , Maria thought dully.

“Does the public know?”

“There are no official news, but the Healing Church condemns this barbaric act. We’ve always been against the belief that the polluted blood has anything to do with Cainhurst.”

 _Of course_ , she thought – it would be a poor image for the Healing Church to associate themselves with those fanatical _animals_ obsessed with blood purity.

“If you need someone to talk to—to be with you, in these horrid times…” His spoke in an earnest way that was a treasured rarity these days. “Then as your friend, I offer my humble company.”

“I—Thank you, but there is no need.” Somehow, she managed to smile and he offered a sympathetic smile back to her. “I am fine. Truly”

“The Vicar also expresses his condolences.” Ludwig added. There were a few moments of silence as Maria’s thought trailed off towards how _curt_ Laurence was around her lately. They had been acquaintances since their days as students in Byrgenwerth, therefore Maria was quite adept at picking apart all of Laurence’s various subtleties and _quirks_. 

Indeed, the massacre was too sudden, she then pondered. Especially since not long ago, the Vicar himself visited Cainhurst and she, along with many others, thought that relationship between the nobles and the Church were finally turning for the better. Little did they know that this sense of elation at the newfound hope of a potential bond, born of peace and cooperation, was to be crushed this mercilessly and for that, Maria felt a profound sorrow deep in her heart.

“Are you certain—that you are alright?” Ludwig asked again. The concern for his friend was plain to see in his eyes. “I talked to Laurence and we both agreed that if you need a few days off, then—”

“I am fine, Ludwig. Thank you.” She repeated herself, tone firmer. “Now if you would excuse me, I have patients to tend to.”

“Alright.” He said and sighed. From his own personal tragedies, he understood why one’s mourning was solitude and throwing one-self into their work. He straightened his back and both of them said their farewells before parting ways.

However, instead of going to her patients’ rooms, Maria headed towards her own quarters. Inside, she dug in her drawer and found a modest box at the bottom of the drawer. She did not have many personal possessions left - only a few photos and trinkets of days long gone by, but this box contained something she could never force herself to throw away.

A finely crafted cap with a decorative, ruffled plume. Maria couldn’t help, but smile fondly as she ran her fingers over the old leather and the stitching with a careful touch. Her beloved Rakuyo was no longer with her—and now, with her kin gone, her last link to Cainhurst was severed and all that was left with her was the memories, the training and this unique piece.

Before the hunters, there were the knights of Cainhurst, but now that was just another one of the many secrets she was forced to protect. Another ghost of the past, she wished to forget.

Maria inhaled a sob and blearily realized that her eyes had welled with tears, threatening to drop over her pale hands and old cap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of an early post, but todays theme was "ghost" and it was meant to be about the ghosts of cainhurst but it ended up being about lady marias own ghosts  
> and I also realized that so far Ive always written maria in the context of some tragedy ---ops,  
> good boy messenger ludwigs inclusion was an indulgence I couldnt resist  
> and it goes off by how super technically, the executioners are not part of the healing church and they are their own sect + some minor cainhurst backstory
> 
> tbh the cainhurst backstory and logarious is pretty complex but I dont exactly have an idea to expand on it so eh, let it live rent-free in my brain alongside other things


	6. fire - ludwig, healing church hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am combining the prompt of "fire" with a prompt of my own - "moonlight"

After the death of the First Vicar, nights of the hunt became a populous event. Later, some would even nostalgically consider this the Golden Age of hunters, with the Healing Church Workshop functioning as its center. The citizens of Yharnam also participated in the hunt. They walked alongside the hunters, holding torches and whatever weapon they could find. Usually tools of the land – during the day, they worked and during the night, they patrolled.

At one point, the cacophony of men and beasts merged into one and Healing Church hunter’s consciousness dove into a hazy, dream-like state, powered by the sanguine adrenaline.

Earlier they almost lost a limb when a giant, wolf-like beast jumped at them in an abandoned house. The beast was quickly dealt with, but their agony over the gnawed limb persisted for seemingly forever until a fellow hunter grabbed them by the back of their neck and helped them drink, as they forced the blessed blood down their throat. Respite came immediately. They limb they could have—should have lost healed as if it was never injured, and their vigor recovered.

It was an unnatural thing and by all means, it should terrify them, but instead they felt muted fascination and euphoria. They drank greedily, consuming the entire bottle, some of it spilling down their chin, throat and onto the ground. It shamed them that they wanted to lick it off there.

“We need to moved.” The same fellow hunter pulled them forward roughly and the hunter continued their pace on shaky feet. Healing Church hunters must walk in front of the crowd.

Beneath the pale blue moon, the crowd’s march flowed through the streets of Yharnam like an uneven river of fire. Large beasts were strung up on poles and burned at the city plazas – there was a belief amongst the Yharnamites that fire would cleanse the beasts of their sins and stupidity. But this belief also served as a defense – fledglings scurried away from the flame and the torches formed a line from which none dared to stray away from the pack. Bound by a common enemy, they stood together and thus, their strength was not so weak.

Such were the words of Ludwig.

Ludwig was still leading the Workshop and the hunt, but the hunter had grown rugged. Gruffer, some would say, and more _hawkish_. Many of the older hunters were surprised by his vigor, but most of the younger ones were afraid of his monstrous strength and quiet nature. They feared him to be a tragedy waiting to happen and the Healing Church itself certainly hadn’t made an effort to remedy the rumors about his feral, brutish nature. Inside matters were kept under a tight lid, but Ludwig’s influenced only extended towards hunt. The Choir seemed more to content with that and Ludwig appeared to share the sentiment.

Break of dawn marked the end of the hunt and it was another cause of celebration. They protected. They fought. They survived another night. But the road back to Cathedral Ward was the hardest part – retreating back from the high—from the euphoria and adrenaline—from _the dream_ , was a terrifying thing and the Healing Church hunter understood why night after night, more and more people returned for it.

Their mind dipped in and out of the haze, when they felt a hand on their shoulder and they were met with Ludwig’s firm, but concerned eyes.

“Another auspicious night,” Ludwig said. He spoke more quietly nowadays, voice rougher. Ludwig’s hand on their shoulder was a steading presence as their mind gradually reached clarity. He squeezed and patted their shoulder lightly. “Return to your home and rest. Recover for the next hunt.” He also spoke less.

They nodded in response. Thankfully, their face was covered, so their leader would not see their mouth open wide in surprise. Ludwig’s hand retreated from their shoulder and he walked forward in front of the crowd. The Healing Church hunter swallowed and follow after him.

To them, Ludwig was untouchable. Unreachable. They did not know what kind of elusive guidance his mysterious sword offered, but it separated him planes away from humanity—from the rest of them and their beastly, unenlightened states.

The hunter felt breathless and a bit jealous. While they were forced to cling to the comforting light and warmth of the fire and the security of their peers, Ludwig was alone and strong enough to roam the night, completely free. He stood in front of the citizens of Yharnam and in front of the Healing Church hunters as well—and to watch him fight against the scourge was beautiful. The beast blood staining his cape appeared as if black in the full moon’s light, his swords gentle glow and his calm expression made him look like mythical manifestation, rather than a man. Ludwig was not a monster, nor a beast. He was an ethereal, otherworldly being.

The Healing Church hunter heard whispers that those of the Healing Church turn into the most hideous monsters. Upon seeing the late Vicar’s deformed skull, they were included to believe it, so idly they wondered – what terrifying beast would Ludwig turn into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mythical horse beast--anyway. so.  
> a piece from a healing church hunters pov about the hunt. it was meant to be from the citizens of yharnam pov, but eh, since I already had a yahar'gul hunter, lets write a healing church one, ey? plus, I have a different prompt idea for the yharnamites  
> featuring an older, more hawkish ludwig, who lost almost all of his allies 
> 
> also, I was listening to moonlit beast on loop while writing this and I gotta say, remixing cleric beast theme, moonlight sonata and dark reality in one song? goddamn, alex roe is a musical genius


	7. swamp - londor pale shade, heysel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought the londor pale shade is a woman? well, shade is a she here

The Londor Pale Shade tapper her foot impatiently. Lady Yuria instructed her to stand by the perimeter of the Farron Keep, closest to the bonfire, just in case their new Lord of Hollows needed aid against their next opponent. Time stretched on for seemingly forever and the distant, echoing clash of these Lords of Cinders’ unending, zero-sum fight provided a stable ambience. But still, there was no sight or hear of the Unkindled ash.

That and the noise and smell of rot was starting to grate her nerves, if the Shade had to be honest with herself. Either their Lord was preoccupied with the Farron Keep guards or they got themselves dreadfully lost, both prospects unfavorable to her Lady.

Pale Shades of the Sable Church were fiercely loyal to the sisters and to their land. Although more accused to tasks requiring a great deal of savagery and cruelty, this rare obligation of supplying protection, rather than hostility, was something the Shade would put her all into.

For Lady Yuria. And for Londor.

…

Eventually, she resolved herself to venture out and look for their lost Lord in the dreaded swamp. The poisonous water went up to her knees and it made the entire journey more aggravating than it should be as their pace came to a slow walk. Luckily, none of the ancient guardians attacked them – the swamps were surprisingly deserted.

When she reached a small island close to the crumbling keep, she tapped her feet and tried her best to wipe the mud off her coat. A sudden touch on her shoulder almost spooked her out of whatever little skin she had left – she turned around only to be met with a woman dressed in yellow dregs and her head wrapped in a large-mushroom looking wrap, which the Shade could only guess was a Xanthous scholar.

The Shade quickly stomped away, putting each other at the opposing end of the small island. How she did not notice the other wanderer was beyond her.

“Hail,” The scholar’s robust headgear bobbed lightly as she bowed, still holding that pickaxe-like weapon. “A Hollow, are you, hm?” Her voice was quiet, muffled by the wraps. It was hard to hear her, yet alone understand her. “And yet that golden mask…”

Perhaps, the Shade thought, this stranger recognized what her golden, sneering mask was.

“I am hunting,” She quickly said before the Shade could lunge at her. “but I appear to have lost my prey near the tower.” The scholar then gestured at some vague direction in the distance. “Have you seen them?” The scholar continued, voice light.

 _Nay_ , the shade shook her head. She could not speak anymore – her vocal cords were too ruined by the curse and decay, so her only form of communication was _courtesy_. If the prey this scholar spoke of was their Lord of Hollows, then— The grip on her sword strengthened and her Dark Hand pulsated with hunger.

“Unfortunate…and here I had assumed that _those_ were your comrades.”

The Shade tilted her head slightly in confusion, but without answering, the scholar turned her back, gesturing a farewell with a with a wave of her hand.

“If you were to ever need a restart, so to say, then seek Mother Rosaria in the Cathedral of the Deep.” The figure quickly scurried away deeper into the swamp, disappearing just as sudden as she had appeared.

 _How rude_ , the Shade thought as she continued looking for her Lord of Hollows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that feel when you go in someones world and you have no idea where the hell the host is--
> 
> anyway, todays prompt was "swamp" so it was originally meant to be a bit goofier and based on a true story! that happened to me where I summoned the shade and ran off to get a scroll, got invaded by haysel, made some weird detour on top of some rocks, ran around looting wondering where the hell heysel and shade are, ended up accidentally bumping into the darkwraith by accident and experiencing a russian taunt, but somehow winning and then backtracking only to see the shade standing up at the keep while heysel was down in the swamp and both having some texan stand-off with each trying to shoot the other down with music
> 
> as for the story here, the implication is similar - heysel is hunting down the ashen one, but backed off when she saw them running into the darkwraith,   
> shade is just lost


	8. snow - sir vilhelm, sister friede

Sir Vilhelm felt the chill bite deep into his very bones. Despite the padding of his armor and his own endurance, the cold in this painted world was nearly unbearable. A small part of him suspects that this contributed to his Lady’s choice – frost slowed rot.

Corvian settlement in the ravine in the distance and Vilhelm studied it idly - it worried him to leave the painter entirely on her own, but the Corvian knights he left behind to patrol should be more than capable of taking care of whatever pest stumbled anywhere near her.

But intruders are a rarity, bothering on nonexistent, and although unvoiced, Sir Vilhelm was beginning to feel concern for Sister Friede’s paranoia—His teeth chattered briefly due to the cold and he forced himself to still. Perhaps, he too should take refuge inside, even if just for a bit, least he turned into an ice statue at his post.

The inside of the chapel was modest. Bland. It looked more like storage, than a place of worship – rotting paintings propped against the wall and over each other, half-broken furniture lying around, abandoned. Only the space around the altar looked moderately homely—it was the place, Sister Friede usually stood, still as a statue. A small fire, the only source of warmth in the chapel, formed a natural center in front of the altar.

The knight drew near and Sister Friede regarded him with a tilt of her head, before returning her attention to tending to the flame. Dull embers cracked with a faint sound.

“Lady Elfriede.” He went down on one knee and bowed, head dipped low in reverence.

“Sir Vilhelm.” Her voice sounded calm and cold, almost serene and to have her utter his name—oh! Sir Vilhelm felt a warm glow bubble up in his chest. He remained still for a few moments longer, suddenly finding himself districted from the distant, muffled noise of something big being dragged across the ground and the sound of a _thud_.

 _Father Ariandel no doubt_ , he thought and rose up to his feet. He saw Sister Friede’s head turned towards the direction of the noise as if contemplating.

“Outside, there is a bitter cold,” She said, voice distant, and then turned to Sir Vilhelm. “Mayhap, thee wouldst liketh some tea?”

“I—uh…yes?” He stuttered at the sudden prompt, but Sister Friede didn’t seem bothered. He approached her cautiously, as she bowed lightly and took the small pot by the fire, filling a cup with the steamy liquid. Sister Friede then moved closer, her sound of her steps soft and enchanting – bare skin against cold stone.

Sir Vilhelm received the cup with a steady hand, grateful that by now warmth returned to his arms, because he didn’t want to risk accidentally dropping the precious cup. Distantly, he heard the sound of someone getting hit, followed by a groan.

Sir Vilhelm’s head darted between the cup and Sister Friede.

“Father did request tea.” She said, voice still perfectly calm. “I made enough for all of us.”

Again, the sound of a hit, and then another.

“I am grateful for this indulgence.” Sir Vilhelm answered, sincerely. The sound of the fourth hit was weak now, perhaps the Father was losing his stamina—

Sir Vilhelm hesitated to drink. Sister Friede had seen his face before, but he still felt self-conscious to show it. His appearance was beginning to wither again. Perhaps sensing his fretting, Sister Friede spoke again. The sound of more lashes echoed in the distance.

“Is there something amiss?” She regarded him with the tiniest of tilt of her head. Sir Vilhelm suddenly felt a chill more severe than the blowing winds outside the chapel at being this easily read. “Hast our charm hath lost its effect?”

“Yes.” He swallowed hard, confessing immediately. Some emotion passed Sister Friede’s face in what Sir Vilhelm could only call _thoughtful_. Maybe even _concerned_ , at his highest of hopes.

“Waiteth a moment prithee.” She stepped away and busied herself with a nearby drawer as Sir Vilhelm waited patiently. Anxiously – in all his years serving as a knight, moments such as these were the most worrisome.

The Sister walked back to him eventually and placed something small in the paw of his gauntlet. Sir Vilhelm took it between two clawed fingers with the gentlest of care – it was a peculiar ring. Realization dawned on him.

“With this, thee shall nev'r worry about thy compliment extern.” She said and Sir Vilhelm saw her lips curl up in the tiniest of smiles. He almost gasped due to the shock—Lady Elfriede had been too kind to him!

“Thank you.” He said. There were many things he wanted to say, many sincere words he wanted to tell her, but that was a line he could not—must never cross. He was her knight and nothing more.

“The Purging Stone’s respite is a temporary one.” She explained. Idly, Sir Vilhelm studied her hands to see if she too wore a similar ring. She did not. “This offers a more permanent solution.”

Sir Vilhelm bowed his head in gratitude again and with the ring and cup in hand, he turned to leave—he did not wish to overstay Sister Friede’s kindness towards him. The sound of his boots almost muffled her quiet voice.

“Sir Vilhelm…” He turned in eager anticipation upon being called. “Thee needn’t wend outside. Nobody shall findeth us h're.”

The offer was alluring and Sir Vilhelm found it hard to resist. But his oath, his promise—he could not betray his Lady. He needed to go outside to collect himself and remain at his post.

“No, I mustn’t.” He shook his head and turned towards the door. “I must fulfil my duty.”

“As thee wisheth.” Sister Friede nodded briefly and then picked up the pot. Faintly, she could hear Father Ariandel’s rugged breath—no doubt her medicinal tea would prove helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 8, posted on day 9, but early, so still counts, ey? todays prompt was snow so ....painted worlds ofc,  
> friede: since you keep dying, take this ring and stop bothering me  
> vilhelm: ooooooOOOOOHHHhhhh...!!  
> anyway, I really like sir simp and I was putting the biggest shakespear clown hat on when writing friedes dialogue 
> 
> this is posted a bit late because, I uh, was having a minor burnout + some minor creative self-loathing but managed to get this out and things should be fine now...I hope,


	9. sword - raime, nadalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exile swordsman Raime had the ability to expunge the black fog, but chose instead to live alongside it, in the company of the child of Dark that haunts his sword.

Her voice whispered words into his ears, sweet and alluring.

_Welcome darling, you’ve come._

_Black armor—like a raven’s feathers…What does a Harbinger of Death seek here?_

_Are you lost, my knight? Let me aid you._

…Raime heard tales about the tower. Tales of kings and wanderers pillaging the Brume Tower for its riches, hoping to attain even a fraction of the wealth, which belonged to the megalomaniacal Old Iron King. The knight himself had been here once before - when the Giant’s thread was deemed imminent, King Vendrick ordered him and his troops to loot the Iron Keep to construct a fort to defend themselves against the incoming threat across the seas.

But now the Brume Tower was haunted by an accursed influence. At first there was silence, aside from the distant sound of machinery and metal, but then he heard her calling to him. A desperate protector, he understood, as he ventured deeper into the tower.

_What are you looking for, my dear?_

What _did_ he seek to find – proof that his King was corrupt? Or perhaps, power?

“There is naught you can offer me.” His voice rumbled, hoarse – he doesn’t remember the last time he spoke. It was absurd, Raime thought, to argue with ghosts. The solitude of exile was eating him away.

 _I disagree, there is much I can offer!_ The voice turned defensive, as another guard met its end to Raime’s broadsword. _Please, don’t leave me._

And now it turned desperate – Raime could recognize the loneliness it exuded.

_Traitor knight, but it was you who was betrayed, was it not? You and I are much alike._

The woman continued talking to him as he fought his way through. Even with his shield lost, the tower’s rusted knights barely offered any resistance. Malformed ghosts chained to this tower had no hope against King Vendrick’s left-hand man—

Well, _former_ , the knight thought bitterly. King Vendrick was a wise and just man, but he was seduced by that snake of a woman and did not pay heed to his warnings. There was an argument between Raime and the King’s mindless dog, Velstadt. In Drangleic, it was might that proved right, so when Raime lost, he was forced into exile.

His armored boots sank into the ashen sands and the door towards the depths of the tower opened, seemingly by themselves.

“Who are you?” He finally asked. Faintly, Raime felt the familiar pull of the Dark, as he tried to search for her. It was a simple manner to remove her influence—to expunge the Dark and purify this power. But he didn’t.

_I am Nadalia. I sought a King, but I arrived too late. There is nothing, but ash and ruin in here._

“A child of the dark?” Raime asked and the silence stretched on. For a brief moment, he feared that he scared her away.

_Yes._

At the bottom of the tower, he finally saw her—or at least what remained of her physical body. A fragile husk of burnt flesh and ash clinging to the forgotten crown of the Old Iron King.

But he was seeing her from the very beginning, was he not? The voice and the black smoke was her and it was she who kept defending the Brume Tower for all these years – her dance of smoke and ash overwhelmed the knights and fools who came to this wretched place.

Protecting this lonesome grave of a forgotten glory. Raime stilled. The Dark bit at the edges of his mind, but for once, its presence was not unwelcomed.

Nadalia was not like Nashandra. Although sharing the same wicked origin, neither of the sisters were like one another. Desire. Fear. Wrath. Solitude _._ They all sought for a means to overcome their weakness. A King. Power. Love.

Companionship.

To assume that they were the same evil was foolishness. And perhaps that had been his foolishness.

_What are you doing—_

Her smoke embraced him with the welcoming warmth a mother would and Raime did not expunge her Darkness. It was comforting. Reassuring. The Ashen Idols continued singing—screaming, as the mist danced around him.

At one point, Raime must have fallen to his knees, because he realized that one hand was clutching the rubble for support, while the other was buried deep in the ashen mounds of her tomb – the clawed fingertips of his black gauntlet scratched against metal as he felt for _something._ He grabbed it, and pulled and pulled, until—

 _Metal_ – the Brume Tower possessed enough metal and workforce to build an army and it had enough masters to create the finest equipment. It was this that enabled the Old Iron King’s greed. However, this black slate of metal—the heavy, twisted sword he pulled out had none of that grace.

But it was a gift from his newfound mother – she gave him a new purpose.

“You and I will stay remain here, together in this ashen graveyard. This is our beginning and our end.” The sword in his hand pulsated with understanding—and acceptance.

_My knight. My champion of Dark…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruh, this draft was such a fucking mess, so my apologizes if its a bit weird
> 
> anyway, my confession is that dark souls 2 is actually my favourite from the trilogy and its kind of wack that it took me till now to write a prompt with it, but eh--anyway I love raime, stan raime. 
> 
> a friend requested a nadalia and raime fic, but that was going kinda nowhere so I pseudo-converted the fic into this w him actually finding the sword
> 
> raime: my mum gave me a heavy, shitty sword, but its ok, I still love her  
> honestly, kind of woke that ludwig gets an eldritch waifu sword and raime gets an ghost mommy sword (his armor calling nadalia his newfound mother-figure to follow)


	10. dragon - solaire, chosen undead

The Chosen Undead panted lightly, trying not to wheeze as they hid behind the stone wall. Just a few meters away, some hollowed soldiers were scattered across the bridge. Idle and oblivious to the incoming doom.

 _Not again_ , they almost cursed as the heard the distant sound of wings flapping. Already mentally and physically prepared for the mad dash, they quickly tried to sprint past those wretched souls. The bonfire was in plain view, just beyond the gate at the end of the gate.

_Reach out. Just a little more. The bonfire is right there, I mustn’t despair. Comfort in its warmth—_

As if on cue, they felt the ground beneath them rubble as something big passed right above their heads. Now they did curse, as they saw the fire breath in the peripheral of their vision come for them, during their mad dash. The fires consume them whole and left naught, but ash and charred bone on the bridge.

They awakened again much later, far away and from their destination. They cursed again and stood up, coughing and aching.

How many times has it been? Twice? Thrice? Perhaps more. At one point, the Chosen Undead decided to adopt a certain philosophy during their escape from the Undead Asylum – stop counting the failures. Stop counting the deaths. Don’t dig into past mistakes and push forward, _no matter what_.

Was it insanity to repeat the same action, expecting different results? The Chosen Undead wondered, but quickly tucked the worry away. After all, they had to - otherwise this entire tale about ringing the Bell of Awakening would be insanity in its purest form.

On the way back to the bridge, they passed the same peculiar, sun-gazing knight they met just before they found themselves in this bind. Solaire was still where the Chosen Undead had last seen him, seemingly oblivious, or perhaps unbothered, by the carnage on the bridge just a few meters away.

“Oh, you’re still around?” Solaire’s head remained transfixed to the sun, its rays barely visible behind the dirty gray clouds. 

“There is a dragon on the bridge.” They told him as a warning, when they approached him. Their words were more so out of some sentimental feelings of concern for this chatty man, they found amongst strangers, beasts and other oddities.

 _The way I see it, our fates appear to be intertwined. In a land brimming with Hollows, could that really be mere chance? So, what do you say? Why not help one another on this lonely journey?_ Solaire told them earlier, and while the Chosen Undead was not a particularly big believer of destiny, amidst the ruins and destruction, to find someone who did not wish to harm them at first sight, made companionship and trust build fast.

“That’s not a dragon. It’s a drake.” Solaire corrected with a chuckle and he turned to face them. _Finally_ , a small part of them rejoiced. “Drakes are…pale imitations of the real dragons.”

 _The fire breath would disagree_ , the Chosen Undead thought solemnly. Distantly, they heard the _drake_ breathe out fire again. More howls of wretched undead followed.

“In the past, the dragons dominated the land. That was the Age of the Ancients.” Solaire said, after the silence between them stretched on. The Chosen Undead’s head tilted slightly in confusion. “The world was unformed, shrouded by fog. A land of gray crags, Archtrees and Everlasting Dragons.”

“But the dragons are mostly gone now, are they not?” The Chosen Undead said, a bit uncertain upon trying to recall the tale. Solaire nodded in confirmation.

“With the birth of the First Flame, Lord Gwyn and his Lords challenged the dragons for dominion over the world. During the war, the Lord of Sunlight used his powerful bolts, pealing their stone scales. As you may know,” Solaire said, tone proud. He gestured with a finger towards the sky above them. “Dragons are weak to lighting.”

They gave a noncommittal hum in answer. In truth, the Chosen Undead did not care that much about the tale, but listening to Solaire talk was enjoyable, so they soaked up every word he uttered with rapt interest.

“The Lords themselves were not to be underestimated either! The Witch of Izalith and her Daughters of Chaos wove great firestorms. Nito, the First of the Dead, unleashed a miasma of death and disease. And Seath the Scaleless, who sought the immortal scales of the dragons, betrayed his own kind to aid Gwyn and his Lords.”

“Well, I guess they won and the dragons lost.” The Chosen Undead looked around them and gestured by spreading their hands. Their tone bordered on acerbic, although they did not intend to sound bitter. It has truly been to long since they spoke to someone they could consider _friendly_.

“Yes, indeed.” He answered, tone pleased. “The Everlasting Dragons were driven to extinction, with only a few descendants remain, for example our red friend guarding the bridge.”

“…And thus, the Age of Fire began.” The Chosen Undead said quietly and Solaire clapped his hands.

“An age of sunlight and prosperity!” He exclaimed.

“But the flame will fade eventually, bringing upon us an Age of Dark…” They put a hand under the chin of their helm. The fading embers. The faint sunrays. The endless nights…

_That time was closer than one might think, was it not?_

“Indeed, but fear not,” Solaire’s calm, _confident_ voice pulled them back from their thoughts. “They say it would be an Undead to link the fire,” Solaire said. “Who knows, perhaps it might be me, perhaps it might be you.”

He laughed, and the Chosen Undead shrugged, a small smile on their face, well-hidden behind their headgear. But an inevitable, awkward silence stretched between them, muffled by the distant howls of the hollowed soldiers and the sound of claws scraping against old stone.

“There were also many Dragonslayers in the past.” Solaire said, perhaps in an effort the fill the grave silence.

“Oh?” They nodded again, finding themselves entirely too eager to continue listening to him.

“As you may have correctly assumed,” Solaire’s tone picked up in passion now. The topic was clearly dear to him. “The Dragonslayers were very important during the war. So much so, that Lord Gwyn’s Firstborn was their leader and—”

“Lord Gwyn’s Firstborn son…? Was Lady Gwynevere not his eldest?” They interrupted and watched Solaire’s shoulders slump. Heard him sigh deeply under his helm.

“Lord Gwyn’s Firstborn was once a dragon-slaying god of war, before he sacrificed everything to ally himself with the ancient dragons.” He said solemnly. “As punishment for his defection, Lord Gwyn expunged all records of him from history.”

“Ah,” They blinked. Solaire remained silent, head turned towards the fading sunlight again, while the Chosen Undead pondered – why would a god of war abandon everything to side with the enemy? Go against his very own father? And to willingly accept the burden of exile?

The answer came to them, as naturally as their encounter with Solaire.

“Perhaps, he was also looking for his own sun.” The Chosen Undead offered and Solaire immediately turned towards them in mute shock. For a brief moment, they panicked, unsure of what to say, so instead they diverted. “In any case, are there any Dragonslayers left? Although it’s a drake, I could really use their help with…” They pointed towards the bridge, occupied by the large, red drake.

Solaire laughed. His laugh was an enjoyable sound and the Chosen Undead felt a pleasant warmth spread in their chest.

“No, I don’t believe there are any around here, no.” He said, tone friendly again. “I know of only one and he remains in Anor Londo. Dragonslayer Ornstein—But, despair not! I’ve gazed at the wondrous sun past the point of indulgence and tethering towards indulgence,” The Chosen Undead furrowed their brows in confusion. “Let us engage in some jolly-cooperation! Perhaps by the end, you too may be convinced to become a warrior of the sun!”

The Chosen Undead shrugged. “I believe I am ill-suited to save others, when I cannot even save myself.”

“Nonsense,” Solaire quickly objected. “You’ve made it thus far, therefore you are more than capable of pressing onwards.” They remained silent, unconvinced. “And if you were to ever need help, then seek my sign to summon me to your aid! If you miss it, you must be blind!”

They started laughing.

“Ah, perhaps you think of me as fool or as a laughing stock?” Solaire chuckled as well, but there was no bashfulness, nor hesitation or embarrassment in his words. “If you ever find yourself in peril, just call and I will help you, this I promise you.”

“No, it’s...” They calmed themselves and their words trailed off, as they recalled the visage of a knight above them, dirty gray clouds behind him, rescuing them from oblivion and decay. Perhaps, Solaire’s _sun_ was not something extravagant like a body of fire. “I was told by …someone, to ring the bells. To face my fate,” They shrugged. Perhaps, later they should try to get back to the Undead Asylum and at least find a proper way to honor that knight’s end. His end and their beginning. “I doubt a man seeking his own sun is any stranger.”

“Haha, let’s go, my friend. The road ahead us will not be pleasant, but together the journey will be less bitter.” Solaire said. He gathered his feet together and raised his hands, fingers pointing towards the gray sky. “Praise the Sun!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy, 
> 
> 1\. I kinda gave up editing this thin g,  
> 2\. IT WAS MEANT TO BE SHORT AND GOOFY, but I ended up way longer than intended and into some weird philosophical musings about the sun after a history lesson, borderline pre-slash type of thing--- jeez how come the chosen undead gets 2 starter boyfriends? dark souls is an otome, I swear  
> 3\. even wilder that halfway into the history lesson I started losing my shit on twitter about “wtf did seath even do during the war except fucking gwyn” and “wait, someone is missing, wheres the four or more kings—OH RIGHT”  
> 4\. technically, I shouldn't call them the chosen undead yet, but technically, I kinda gave up halfway in here  
> 5\. beats around the bush with shoving the prompt of "dragon" in this, but at least not as much as the demon one
> 
> 6\. I dont regret this. I like solaire,


	11. knight - cainhurst knight, laurence, master willem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh,  
> some theories about cainhurst origin, etc. etc. smol cameo of young bloody crow of cainhurst

_The old nobles, long-time imbibers of blood, are no strangers to the sanguine plague, and the disposal of beasts was a discrete task left to their servants, or knights, as they were called for the sake of appearances._ – Reiterpallasch, item description.

…

The origin of Cainhurst castle, with its lofty, moonlit towers, ornate carriages, royal drapery and refined manners was not one which belonged to the land’s overlords. Indeed, most records of their past were kept securely in their vast library – fragments scattered amongst their collection of books and antiques, hidden in plain sight so to say. It was knowledge few were privy to.

Was this secrecy born out of shame? Or was it another one of their sins—one of greed?

In truth, their reasonings were lost to most of Cainhurst – muddied by sanguine passions and lost to the fog of ages, it evolved into an old grudge, born of dishonor and degradation. Only their cursed Queen remained as a steadfast stalwart of the ancient’s mission—

Deep underground, within the ancient labyrinths, lived those blessed by the Gods. The civilization of Pthumeru – superhuman beings that uncover the wisdom of the eldritch Truth. However, while the early Phtumerians were content to remain as humble guardians of the slumbering Great Ones, their descendants felt entitled to rule their own fate. The longed for make a leader of their own.

This desire split the civilization into two, and a conflict arose. So much so, that most casualties to this day lie where they fell, or were dumped in masses in underground lakes and pits of blood. Some were even used give birth to various monstrosities in ritual sacrifice.

A crushing defeat and a curse. Facing total extinction, the remnant survivors of the faction that sought their own path, ran and eventually, found refuge on the surface. However, there their bodies grew fragile, their minds weak. Devolution – without the blessing of the Great Ones, they faced degradation.

But their ambition remained and they did not despair no matter how many years of stagnation passed– cursed thought they may be, they will follow through with their plan and find their leader, heir to the Great ones – a Child of Blood. Such was the ancient adage of Cainhurst.

_When all is melted in blood, all is reborn._

…

The residents of Cainhurst were no strangers to beast – whether from their own ilk, or from remnants scurried to the surface from the labyrinths below, the hunt was an integral part of everyday life for the residents of the castle. It was handled by their servants—or knights, as they were _respectfully_ called.

But the Cainhurst knights were not savages. In fact, knighthood required them to be refined and possessing a deep devotion to the aesthetic – the elegance in the way they fought, the great attention in detail to their regal adornment, their ornate weapons, every tiny story and custom about their equipment and rituals, the precious blood, the careful carnage—it was their signature carved into the finest of materials to create the most decadent artwork. Every hunt was a ritual, and even the blood-stained corpses they left behind was a symbol of their pride and skill.

“Clean the blood from your blade.” The knight instructed a student of their own—a youth with a spectacular affinity to bloodtinge, and a talent for wielding weapons of foreign origin. The pupil nodded, obedient, and went to care for their equipment. The fine fabric of their recently-acquired Knight’s wig, fluttered lightly in the cold wind – the knight smiled, content with its excellent craftsmanship. It suited his gifted student finely.

This Cainhurst knight possessed a more profound and intimate knowledge of their obligations – having served and hunted for the Queen for years and years, they were an esteemed example of Cainhurst nobility and grace. But that night, it was not their skills as a hunter that were tested, but their integrity as a noble. 

The servants were going mad with worry over polishing the floor and cutlery – that night there was a special occasion, announced by the Queen the night prior.

“Visitors of Byrgenwerth,” The Queen was curt when it came to telling the news – guests were a rarity to Cainhurst, with most people fearing the isolated castle. Some even spreading denigrating rumors about them and their hunt, such as calling them a _court of hedons_. “Byrgenwerth is an old place of learning. These brave scholars study the tomb of the gods, which should'st be familiar to every one of thou.”

“Our neighbors.” Some of the young, noblewomen whispered amused amongst each other, unable to resist their curiosity for gossip. The knight shot them a disproving glare and the ladies stilled, guilty for their poor display of manners in front of the Queen. However, they were quick to correct themselves, so the knight saw there is no need to reprimand them later.

“And we are to discuss manners of great importance.” The Queen warned.

A small welcoming committee greeted an even smaller band of scholars at sunset. Perhaps due to the suddenness of their visit, the banquet was rather modest – something that Provost Willem seemed more than content with, as it gave the excuse for him and the Queen to usher themselves to a more secluded space to talk, right as the dinner ended.

That left the rest of the scholars—the provost’s students with the knights and ladies, whom they were told to sit. _Like parents taking care of children_ , the knight regarded them with a studying look.

The students themselves were an odd bunch – pale, gaunt creatures, with sharp eyes and quivering lips. The nobles were very much unbashful in their attempts to indulge the scholars with all manners of discussion, whether intellectual or frivolous. But, both sides appeared entirely too unwilling to entertain the theater and etiquette by quickly and mercilessly shutting down any unfavorable topics for either side.

Eventually, using their travel exhaustion as a pretext, the students retired, and the nightly activities quieted down until the castle came to a peaceful still, as everyone retreated to their quarters for the night.

Too used to the hunt, the knight remained awake through the night, patrolling the perimeters of the castle, his circle ending with the library.

The library itself was perhaps the most impressive part of the castle – not just because of its size and architecture, but also because of the knowledge it stored. However, now it was dark and cold inside, air musty – like the inside of a tomb.

Which is why, when the knight sensed the presence of another in the darkness, they were wary. Despite the rain beating against the window outside, they could hear the faint sound of pages turning. Stalking carefully, they looked around the isles.

On second floor, in the faraway corner - they saw the faint glow of a lantern and approach it. They spotted the familiar, dark, oversized cloak draped over a crisp Byrgenwerth uniform and the youth’s eyes focused on an old tome with burning intensity. There was a childishly wide grin on his face.

“Who are you?” They said tersely, as their feet picked up in pace, the heels of their boots now tapping the old wood loudly.

The youth blinked and turned towards the knight, the faint glow of the light reflecting the slight shock on his features. He quickly closed the book and hid it behind his kneeling leg, just as the knight came close.

“What are you doing here, boy?”

“My apologies,” The student said, tone even, but avoiding the knight’s stern eyes. He exhaled lightly. “The pitcher was emptied and I was looking for a place to refill it. Unfortunately, it appears I have gotten myself dreadfully lost.” 

Indeed, there was an empty pitcher placed on the ground next to his leg. He offered the knight an innocent look and their eyes narrowed. Despite the youth’s haughty act of inculpability, they could almost taste the adrenaline in his blood—the nervousness of a culprit caught in the act.

“This is quite far away from the quarters you were allowed.” The knight answered flatly and saw the student’s expression remain very still. But they did not need to interrogate him further to reveal his crime – his guilt was plain to see in his action.

The knight grabbed him by the upper arm, perhaps rougher than intended, and pulled him up to his feet from his half-kneeling position. The student gasped in surprise but did not fight back as the knight dragged him down the stairs, both walking in hasty steps and tense silence all the way to the other side of the castle.

Thankfully, the Provost was still awake. Him and a few other students were talking quietly in the lobby, when the knight deposited his student back to him.

“This is one of yours.” The knight released the youth and he immediately scurried a few steps away, a deep scowl on his face. He was rubbing and squeezing his forearm lightly, tending to it – perhaps a bruise would form.

His teacher sighed deeply.

“Laurence…” The youth was still frowning, gaze defiantly pointed downwards to avoid his teacher’s pitying look. “We will discuss this later,” He then turned to look at the knight, expression sincere. “I promise you, my students rudeness will not go unpunished."

The knight nodded. Laurence bit his lower lip.

“I apologize for my transgression, Master Willem.” Laurence said, words hollow. His expression eased into something somewhat apologetic, but it appeared, as if plastered on human skin. This foul attempt at mimicry appeared quite vulgar to the knight. 

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you are…” The provost’s tone seemed dismissive. “You will apologize to our dear hosts later at a more appropriate hour.”

The student frowned again and perhaps, the knight could pick up the faint smell of regret. But it lost upon them whether its cause was the shame of him doing it, or the displeasure that he was caught.

Laurence walked over to his peers and sat down on the couch with a dejected sigh. His fellow students gave him a levelled look, but not out of pity. It was reverence – no doubt they were eager to find more about their companion’s findings. They circled him like vultures.

Provost Willem clicked his tongue.

“Thank you, for returning him to us. And I must also apologize for abusing our kind host’s good graces,” Master Willem said. The knight bowed lightly, in polite acceptance. “I think it’s better to conclude tonight’s discussion prematurely. Off to beds. _Now_.”

The students started shuffling out of the lobby and towards their sleeping quarters. Laurence mixed in with the hushed chatter of his peers, oblivious or _determinedly_ ignoring the way Provost Willem’s stare was bearing down on his back.

“Youths nowadays can be quite intrepid.” Provost Willem commented drily once it was just him and the knight. They nodded.

“Indeed.”

“I think,” The Provost said, discreetly. “The Queen needn’t know about this little _accident._ ”

The knight remained silent for a brief moment, considering. To disturb the Queen with this would be, _distasteful._ Especially in light of the budding relationship between Cainhurst and Byrgenwerth.

“I will not inform Queen Annalise about this, but you must take care that your students do not do the same mistake twice.” The knight said diplomatically. “Repeated offenses will be punished severely.”

“Oh, toss him to the evil spirits next time if you want,” Provost Willem answered half-sarcastically, to which the knight just stared back at him flatly. The Provost coughed. “Thank you. Truly, you have been too kind towards us as hosts,” The old man smiled and the knight’s face eased as well. “Well, I should be going too. Goodnight.”

“Rest well.” The knight said and walked out into the hallway.

The night had been auspicious, all things considered – the Cainhurst knights were above all else protectors. Of Cainhurst’s nobility, their honor—and their secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wheeze, 
> 
> gothic vampirs meet dark academia...?  
> so. todays theme was knight...and during the earlier maria fic I said I wouldnt go indepth on the cainhurst backstory conspiracy ---well, I lied. the idea presented itself and I wont go super deep into the theory about pthumerus relationship to cainhurst: its a kinda popular theory and theres a lot of ingame backing.  
> \+ this is before the vilebloods existence since 1. you need hunters for dregs and the hunters werent really a thing at this point 2. the mysterious byrgenwerth scholar didnt send old blood contrabrand to cainhurst yet, and 3. annalise is still looking into the whole child of blood dilemma--something something healing church playing 4d chess with cainhurst and the executioners and pour oil into the fire  
> \- also I am pretty sure annalises whole undying situation is because she was cursed by the great ones lol, (curses = defiled and even she calls herself defiled) 
> 
> anyway, master willem and laurence werent really meant to be involved but I was like, "lets just keep the tape going." (esp since I already have a prompt planned for their daddy issues confrontation...especially since micolash will be around too! while he stayed home on the cainhurst excursion)  
> \- the young student the knight takes care of is meant to the crow of cainhurst, a knight at first and then joined the vilebloods, and Idk, I like this stuck-up knight type obsessed with the aesthetic of nobility. ALSO, the knight is meant to appear very refined, but also animalistic (hence the fact that they had a heightened sense of taste/smell/hear and etc  
> \- some weird meta about how the knight wasnt hunting beasts for once but ended up hunting down mr. future host of the beast blood o<< (and belated, unintentional realization that theres a parallel between the knight and their student and willem and his rat)
> 
> me before: I dont care about cainhurst, I only care about healing church-mensis-byrgenwerth drama  
> me now: cainhurst is also cool actually,  
> (ps. if anyone wants to read a nice ghost story-esque fic about cainhurst, go check out: stiriaca sire from 0plus2equals1 on ao3)
> 
> wow, weeps, another tl;dr esp after yesterdays unexpected one, and tomorrow there is no hope to take it easy considering its about artorias being a disney princess


	12. cooperate - bearer of the curse, navlaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they also mention their mutual dear friend aldia a lot

Navlaan exhaled sharply, feels the cold air in his lungs.

“Please…Please, just leave me alone.” He begs, but the figure beyond the magical wall does not stop, nor retreat. The Bearer of the Curse was just a few steps away front of his tiny prison cell—his sacred fort. It served to protect – him from the outside and the outside from him.

“I see,” They speak to him with a calm voice. No accusations or hostility. Cordial – as if trying not to frighten a small animal or bargain with a child, but Navlaan knows that he shouldn’t be underestimated. His was the potential of unimaginable ruin, for there was a monster lurking behind his eyelids and he was too weak to stop it. Incapable of controlling it, no matter how gifted he was with magic, which is why instead he opted to locked it and himself away to wither away in this forgotten keep. “Like this, you are different.” They say. 

The Bearer pulls out a human effigy and shows it to Navlaan. The sorcerer licks his lips in eager nervousness – he could tell that the Bearer of the Curse possessed countless one of these— _just how many did they kill?_ A deep part of him cheers, and shame quickly follows.

 _“_ Fiend,” He immediately lashes out. The Bearer remains silent. “How many did you murder?”

They tuck the effigy away and while doing so, Navlaan studies them. He notices the weapon by their side was polished clean. Their bag was rugged and torn – no doubt damage sustained in their perilous journey towards the Throne of Want.

“None.”

“Liar.”

“I haven’t killed anyone—or at least, I haven’t killed anyone for _you_ ,” The Bearer corrects themselves with a careful tone. A part of Navlaan suspects this to be a lie as well, but he also found himself willing to believe them. “I needn’t spill blood to earn your cooperation.”

At that, Navlaan tilts his head slightly in confusion. The Bearer sighs.

“Has your sleep been peaceful as of late?” They ask instead and Navlaan’s thoughts comes to a sudden halt - he hasn’t. In fact, his sleep had been the most peaceful in years.

“No. What did—what did you do?” Navlaan is on his feet now, dumbstruck by the sudden realization. The Bearer shrugs.

“I said I’ll help you.” They explain plainly. “So, I did.”

Navlaan crosses his arms and tries to think. He tried to dig through his fragmented memory to find the cause for this change, but like trying to snatch at water, nothing remained in his grasp. They looked at the Bearer with pleading eyes for an explanation, but they did not make an effort to ease his confusion.

“Goodbye, Navlaan.” They said simply and left. 

Afterwards, Navlaan felt relief to be finally left alone, but also a melancholic sadness – he was left all on his own now, was he not? The Keep is cold and lonely, but at least now, he tried to comfort himself, he was safe and sane.

…

Later, the Bearer returns. They were now under the slight effect of Hollowing, but the difference wouldn’t be seen behind their armor. It was an easy fix, with their surplus of effigies, but…

At the end of the corridor, the figure behind the magical wall spots them and starts cackling. 

“Tried to give him some peace, did you?” He said, when he finally calmed himself. “I didn’t expect mercy from the likes of you.”

“Bonfire Ascetic.” They said plainly, voice deepened by the Hollowing. The sorcerer straightens his back.

“Yes, yes, of course. As you wish,” _‘Navlaan’_ jumps up on his feet and goes to the corner of his cell to find the requested items. While rummaging, he speaks to them, deeply amused. “To be so profoundly deceived…I deserve your head!” The Bearer makes it a point to ignore him and passes the souls through the barrier. “But, no matter. I’ve come to view you as a friend.”

The sorcerer completes the trade by giving them the embers and the Bearer nods, quickly tucking them away.

“I never would have expected you to be such a shrewd character!” ‘Navlaan’ continues taunting. “I now understand why Aldia opened a line of communication between you and him.”

Upon uttering that name, the Bearer frowns. ‘Navlaan’ was quick to pick on the change of mood.

“You trust him, don’t you?”

“He has told me more about the nature of the curse, than anyone else.” Clearly, there was some _bitterness_ regarding their mission. Not that ‘Navlaan’ could not understand as to why, considering what the Muse groomed them towards— _why didn’t they kill her_ , the sorcerer wondered.

“He’s quite persuasive.” He says instead.

“As he was to you?”

‘Navlaan’ clicked his tongue. “Enabler, in my case.”

“I presume it was mutual.” The Bearer had seen the Keep in its entirety – the faux dragons, the cages full of odd monsters, the malformed servants—the cruel experiments. 

“Well, yes,” The sorcerer openly confessed. “Although, I met him when he was still a simple man. How is he nowadays?”

The Bearer inhaled sharply.

“He has a knack for appearing suddenly as an explosion of fire and molted roots from underneath my feet.” It was a dreadful experience – battered and tired, finally reaching out for the comforting light of the bonfire, only to be thrown a few meters away by the knockback, as a giant figure of molted flesh and wood erected from the ground beneath them.

‘Navlaan’ resists the urge to laugh again. “He’s always had a flair for dramatics.”

“It’s a shared trait with you.”

‘Navlaan’ only huffs now. He liked this Undead – he would be more than content to remain confined as he was with their occasional company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...  
> today was a bit of a hurdle for me, because I accidentally mistook and thought a different prompt was up today, and while that prompt and todays had artorias in mind, I was like, theres a slight overlap of ideas, I had to panic come-up with an idea and thought about converting this one navlaan and aldia pre-canon fic wip I have, buuut that one was too long and kinda wacky cos it goes more indepth about his uh, mental instability and split personaly, and I felt lazy today---
> 
> ended up deciding to do a different navlaan idea + some bearer of the curse rep, because boy, I only had one prompt idea (which was the honourable closing act) but now they get 2 because dark souls 2 is bestsouls 
> 
> anyway, todays theme was "cooperation" and what can I say, I think theres like 3 cooperations in here, technically four even, since the bearer hasn't quite picked whether they would follow the waifu ending or the bro ending yet


	13. traveler - the hunter, byrgenwerth scholar, blood minister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: xenophobia  
> if you find this topic uncomfortable, please skip todays entry

_Let us partake in communion... and feast upon the old blood._

The traveler blearily opened their eyes. Their entire body felt sore from the journey – no doubt a combination of fatigue and the bruises, caused by the carriage’s rocking making their limp body jostle into the hard edges of their seat during their sleep.

Despite that, it had been a peaceful sleep. They hadn’t thought it possible to sleep this undisturbed.

As of late, there had been times when their illness either left them bedridden for the entire day, or sleep eluded them altogether. Those days had been the worst – days of unbearable weakness in their body, that no doctor could soothe. No medicine could cure.

 _The medicine_. The traveler shuddered and forced themselves to move.

This place – the city of Yharnam, with its imposing buildings and noisy streets, was the center of blood ministration. A cure for all, they’ve heard. What scientific miracle or God-given gift, could possibly accomplish such a feat?

 _Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented. Seek the old blood,_ the traveler steeled themselves, tried not to focus on the few odd looks they received from those that passed them, as they walked the streets.

The Yharnamites themselves were a strange bunch – bigger than them, stronger and with shifty eyes. They were like minotaurs, except that instead of a labyrinth, they were prowling the streets of Yharnam.

_Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes our fears. Seek the old blood._

“Excuse me ma’am, I—” They stopped a woman and her face scrunched up into an ugly grimace.

“Why are you talking like that—oh, Gods’ damn it, it’s a stupid foreigner!” She barked at them. The traveler stared back at the Yharnamite with a sick sort of surprise. “You’re not wanted here. Go away.” The woman’s high-pitched voice shrieked at them in the middle of the streets. Others were now staring at their scene and the traveler, now alarmed, hastily walked away, trying to escape the crowd, least things escalated further.

_But beware the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young._

…

For days, hazed by the sickly-sweet smell wafting on the air and on the brink of breaking due to their own illness, the traveler roamed in fruitless search for the old blood.

“Stupid beast.”

“It’s all your fault! It’s all your fault—that we’re even in this mess!” Most said to them.

“Get out of here, before I get rid of you myself!” Others openly threatened them.

It was an alienation and hostility so profound and unforgiving that a small, treacherous part of their mind was starting to feel genuine guilt for a crime they never committed and wondered whether their sickness was not a type of divine punishment.

But regardless, they grit their teeth and pressed on with their search. Their only solace was the unnaturally long nights in Yharnam – sleep came as peacefully as if being awake, the day and night seemingly blending into the same realm.

…

The day their mind had been the clearest, was also when they came with a breakthrough in their inquiry.

“A foreigner, I hear?” An older man immediately ushered to a nearby coffeehouse. They did not wish to impose, but the man was insisted. The coffee they drank while chatting was surprisingly thick and energizing – the traveler hadn’t felt this awake in ages. “We don’t see much outsiders nowadays.”

The traveler tried to keep a bright smile at finally being acknowledged, despite immediate recollection of the appalling past few days. “I heard about Yharnam’s blood ministration, so I came here to seek treatment.”

The man spoke with a slight lisp. Perhaps, he too was a foreigner, but by the easy, confident way he carried himself, it seems like he fully assimilated himself into the city – he had the same ghoulish appearance the Yharnamites possessed. He was dressed in a refined suit and carried an intricate-looking, metal cane in his hands.

A gentleman.

“Paleblood?” He eyed them carefully. They nodded and felt their head spin. A dizzy spell – their clutched their head in pain and steadied themselves by grabbing onto the table—trying to hold onto the stability of the corporal world around them.

So much so, that they did not notice that the gentleman was now beside them, closer than a stranger ought to be.

“Are you with me, my friend?” He said, voice steady. The gentleman was kneeling down in front of them and touching them—checked their eye, placed the back of his hand on their forehead to feel their temperature, placed two fingers on their neck to find their pulse—The touch was intrusive, but not unpleasant. They could immediately tell, that they were examined with the practiced finesse of a professional.

“Are you a doctor?” The fever caused their words to slur slightly and the gentleman laughs lightly.

“Goodness, no.” He interjected. “The only doctors in this city are members of the Healing Church—I am a simple scholar, disciple of Byrgenwerth.”

 _Byrgenwerth_ , the name did not ring familiar to them.

“The blood, I—” They mumbled and swallowed hard – their mouth felt like sandpaper. “I don’t have much money left…”

“Oh,” The gentleman blinks. “You needn’t worry about that. Blood ministration is administered free of charge, even to foreigners,” He stood up on his feet and went to sat back at his seat. The traveler downed the lasts of their now lukewarm coffee. “I have a friend…a blood minister. He will take care of you.” The gentleman says warmly and the traveler felt a relief so deep they, almost wept with gratitude.

“Thank you.”

The gentleman smiled briefly and then looked away, tapping his fingers on the table and seemingly lost in thought.

“But as a scholar, I always felt it incorrect to refer to it as _healing blood_ ,” His tone remained light and casual as he spoke and with the same breath the uttered. “After all, it does not heal us. It _transforms_ us.”

_The foul beasts will dangle nectar and lure the meek into the depths._

…

_Remain wary of the frailty of men..._

Their chest rises and falls softly, as they tried to calm their breathing—to soothe themselves enough to stop feeling like a trapped animal, while lying on top of the gurney. They were not restrained, but they wanted to avoid involuntary convulsion during their treatment.

“Oh yes… Paleblood. Heh. Well you've come to the right place,” A man on a wheel-chair drew closer. The blood minister’s tone was casually dismissive as he spoke. “Yharnam is the home of blood ministration, you need only unravel its mystery. But where's an outsider like yourself to begin? Easy, with a bit of Yharnam blood of your own. But first…”

“Are you a doctor…?” They ask, against all odds. The man ignores them and fiddles with something in the peripheral of their vision and they shiver lightly. Despite their worries, the traveler did not find the strength to doubt or fight it.

“You need a contract.”

Their eyes started losing their focus and soon their will followed. The traveler was too weak to resist the pleasant pull. It lulled them into a gentle embrace and led them to oblivion.

Once their body grew limp and cold, as if a corpse’s, the man clicked his tongue.

“Fear the old blood, they say.” The blood minister looked down to his missing leg—a leg he had to amputate, when he showed symptoms of beasthood. “Yet we consume it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coffee and old blood...a byrgenwerth special makes your brain go brrrtttt
> 
> Idk what illness the hunter had before drinking the pogtonium juice and being send to hell, so if the vagueness ruins the immersion--as a jurist, my specialty is hiding things I do not know  
> todays theme is traveler - Im replaying as a bloodtinge char and noticed how yharnamites actually knew the hunter before they were a hunter so Im like, hm ...traveller going around asking for some old blood and getting the "warm yharnamite welcome" ? + opening scene portrayal 
> 
> the gentleman oc - ok so, technically he counts an old workshop hunter oc too, the backstory is that hes a byrgenwerth student who became a workshop hunter and after he "retired", hes baiting people into the dream with the blood minister, I was even thinking about him saying a snappy remark like "tell gehrman I send my regards", lol + while I usually keep these characters gender-neutral...I really wanted an old workshop dandyman chara with the threaded cane


	14. magic - leonhard, orbeck, karla, cornyx,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \+ patches and greirat  
> firelink shrine folk banter

“My sincerest gratitude for your hospitality, but I must take my leave.” Sirris of the Sunless Realms dipped her head in a polite bow and the Fire Keeper echoed the sentiment. Leonhard remained hidden on the side of the large throne, which marked Prince Lothric’s place in the shrine, during the entirety of their exchange and remained so for a while longer until he could no longer hear the echo of armored boots.

“It’s safe to come out now.” The Fire Keeper announced and her gentle voice echoed in the chamber. Leonhard stepped out of the shadows and went down from his perch.

“My thanks as well,” The Finger said in a casual tone as he passed by her. “Wouldn’t want to spill any blood on pretty tiles.” He huffed an amused breath, but the Fire Keeper remained silent, opting not to comment upon his words.

In truth, Leonhard only knew about Sirris from afar, but had heard much about her. Deep down, he did feel an itch to finally do away with that _faker_ , but while residing within Firelink Shrine, they were encouraged to keep hostilities at a minimum. A wise man knew to choose one’s battles wisely.

_“That bitch and her buddy ganged up on me at that godforsaken bridge and knocked me out.”_

_“Oh, Creighton, Creighton,” Leonhard told him in mock comfort. “I warned before, didn’t I? You ought to be more careful when you hunt. Us Fingers needn’t hold each other’s hand, right?”_

Back then, Leonhard expected Creighton to swing his axe at him, but somehow he didn’t rise to the provocation and just walked away, muttering more curses under his breath. Leonhard shrugged – he didn’t have the heart to tell him that _her buddy_ , had been their newest friend and ally as well.

 _Such a peculiar thing, that Ashen one._ Leonhard did not know whether to commend them or deem them foolish.

The Finger walked down the stairs, only to see that the smaller halls of the first floor had grown quite lively – usually there was only the sound of the blacksmith and his hammer, but now there were a variety of other faces, each occupying themselves with their own thing.

He stopped his stride and felt the defensive urge to clutch his weapon – Leonhard felt the intrusive feeling of being watched. His head titled slightly and he saw a man sitting in the dark corner, surrounded by scrolls and candles. The man was openly staring at him, expressionless, and with cold eyes trying to peel layers and layers off him to study him.

“Something on my face?” Leonhard’s tone bordered on neutral.

“No.” At that, the man finally looked away and went back to his books. Deciding not to let it go, Leonhard approached him. The man was reading magical texts – various magical scrolls, from beginner, to intermediate and to advance. It was a small library, but very versatile and contained all the basic building blocks for every magician.

Leonhard picked up one and read through it. _Great Farron Dart. Farron Hail…_ Sorceries, he was not terribly versed in, because in the past he deemed them useless.

“If you are to come this close to spy on me, I ought to give you my name at least.” The man said, tone clipped. “It’s Orbeck.”

 _I didn’t ask_ , a petty part of Leonhard wanted to snap back, but kept it to himself – remember, he had to keep the hostility to a minimum. Instead, he ignored him and picked up a different scroll. Now, Orbeck’s gaze grew sharp—like a hawk’s.

 _Logan’s scroll_. Now that was something Leonhard would consider near and dear – the basics of the sorceries were explained in a simple, easy to digest way and Leonhard remembered spending his youth studying these texts with great zeal—He wanted to tear it apart.

Orbeck’s cough brought him back from his recollection.

“Found something you like?” He inquired.

“No,” Leonhard denied quickly. “Nothing here can teach me anything new.”

“Impressive.” Despite his words, Orbeck did not look moved. “Not even the Dragon School possesses such knowledge.” Leonhard shrugged dismissively.

“The Dragon School?” _No offense to Heysel, but…_ Leonhard crossed his arms and leaned the small of his back against a nearby crate. He let out an amused breath. “That place is full of charlatans.”

“I agree with you.” It was hard to see due to the darkness, but Orbeck’s lips curved upwards in the tiniest of smiles.

“If you’re that desperate to learn, I can teach you a few tricks myself. For a prize of course.”

And now he frowned.

“Unnecessary.” Orbeck denied tersely. “While I don’t doubt your knowledge of sorceries, I can smell your scent. You’re an assassin.”

Leonhard laughed, the rumble of his chest causing Orbeck to raise his head towards him in caution.

An assassin? Him? He fought the urge to cut off his tongue out of spite and not as an offering to Rosaria. To call him—a knight of the goddess— _an assassin?_ This oblivious fool’s disrespect felt so scalding, that—

“What are you two rascals up to?” A voice interrupted his train of thoughts and Leonhard’s head turned back. A woman wearing a tattered, black robe and a pointed hat approached them.

“Karla…” Orbeck sighed and remained on top of his pile, posture still guarded, but shoulders noticeably less tense.

“I heard the commotion and I couldn’t resist.” She regarded both of them calmly. Leonhard took a step back – some deep, primal instinct was telling him that something about this woman was _dangerous_.

“Weren’t you looking for Irina?” Orbeck quickly diverted and Karla nodded.

“I was, but I can’t seem to find her. In truth,” She eyed both of them again and Leonhard tried to appear as unbothered as possible. “I came here to ask you, but it appears I was interrupting a discussion, hm?”

Both guilty parties remained silent.

“Ah, they were discussing magic.” Another man approached them. Now, Leonhard felt cornered – he was beginning to understand why that knight of Carim made it a point to avoid fraternizing with these people. “I don’t believe we’ve met, you and I,” The man turned to Leonhard specifically. He was wearing the garb of a pyromancer. “I am Cornyx. That Ashen one broke this old crow out of its cage, and now here I am, in the role of a teacher for pyromancies.”

“We share that in common then,” Karla chuckled. “They freed me from a dark prison. In exchange, I teach them about the truth.”

Orbeck rose a brow, but did not ask her to expand upon her vague statement. Leonhard’s patience was beginning to thin.

“Well, it seems we are all teachers in one way or another.” Cornyx’s tone was easy-going almost to a fault. Leonhard idly wondered how he lived to this old age. “It is an honor to stand among Masters.” 

“I’m no Master yet, merely a student.” Orbeck confessed, bashfully looking down.

“Well, you might not be but, I certainly am one,” Orbeck then shot Leonhard a glare and Leonhard smirked behind his mask. The Finger said softly. “The offer of apprenticeship still stands… That Ashen one was certainly more open-minded to my teachings,” He bowed lightly, further pouring oil into the fire. Orbeck sighed deeply, now clutching his scroll in barely subdued anger.

“Boys…” Karla’s voice warned them. Cornyx huffed in amusement. It was rare to find strangers this chatty. 

…

On the floor above them, two figures were observing their little clique – one seated with his legs crossed on the ground, the other was squatting next to him.

“Fifty that the Vilhelm pretty boy bites it by the next time that Ashen one returns.”

“Only fifty?” Patches’ brows rose. “You ought to wager higher, my friend.”

“Ohoh, any higher and you’d kill the boy, yourself.” Greirat chuckled, careful that his laugh doesn’t echo in the wide chamber. “I know you well enough, Patches.”

“Aww, it’s why betting with you is the best my friend.” Patches grinned.

“Careful, you still owe me.”

“Owe you? Who saved your life in Irithyll?” Patches sounded hurt, but Greirat knew that he was anything but. “If anything, you owe me!”

“Who stole my last shipment while at it?”

“Oh well…you know how it is.”

“Patches…” Greirat sighed, but decided not to push on that aspect of Patches’ debt. After all, he _did_ owe his friend for saving his life, but he would never let Patches know that – he would never shut up about it then. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today's prompt is magic and I went a slightly more unconventional way by having it be a banter fic between residential after the magical boys nearly got into a fight
> 
> I do indeed think that greirat and patches have some type of betting thing going on about who dies and when, tho  
> now, I go back to playing bb


	15. bird - velstadt, raime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poggers, dark souls 2 knights brainrot

An uneasy feeling of peace descended like a thin, morning mist upon Drangleic Castle.

Something, which Velstadt carefully observed, appeared to trouble King Vendrick as well – once the elation from victory over the Giants dispersed, the beloved Queen’s presence grew colder and the council grew shrewder in its decision-making. His King was getting more and more withdrawn.

What should have been a victory that brought about an age of peace and prosperity for the kingdom, was beginning to feel more like a shatter mirror, with its piece slowly falling into place inside the puzzle to unveil a sinister plot.

To what ends, Velstadt still did not know.

The knight idly wandered the castle’s courtyard, perhaps in vain effort to ease the prickly sensation of incoming danger, when he saw Raime – the other knight was near one of the outpost towers and appeared oblivious to his approach, entirely too fixated on observing some birds perched the distant supporting pillars.

 _Birdwatching_ , Velstadt realized.

“Raime,” His voice thundered, thus chasing away the birds—their black wings flapping away noisily. Raime sighed and regarded him with a slight tilt of his head. His thin, broadsword was by his side, but the shield was missing. “The King was looking for you earlier.”

“I was headed his way, right after I was done here—before I was interrupted.” Raime raised a hand in gesture to the birds Velstadt chased off mere moments ago.

“Those birds—”

“Ravens.”

“Those ravens,” Velstadt continued, tone clipped. “Are considered harbingers of tragic news—of Death.”

“Then,” Raime paused and considered his words carefully. “We should thank them for warning us.”

Velstadt frowned, resisting the urge to rise to the provocation. The two had fought together, side by side in the war against the Giants, and they by now knew each other intimately enough, that Velstadt did consider Raime a good friend. But with the aloof way the other man carried himself, Velstadt often found himself fighting the urge to grab and _shake_ him - they were both branded by the same unwavering loyalty to their King, yet sometimes Raime treated him as if he were the enemy.

Perhaps, it was vain hope that one day they might come to mutual understanding. While Raime was an agile swordsman, Velstadt was a hulking cleric. One was the Royal Aegis, and the other possessed the unique power to resist and expunge the Dark. One knight was always at the King's side, as if he were his lord's own shadow, and the other ventured out, to fight and bring victory to his King and death to his enemies. For King Vendrick to have his right and left hand stand in such stark contrast—Velstadt did not know whether to take him as a fool or a genius.

Lost in his own thoughts as he was, Velstadt did not notice the way Raime’s head turned to one of the lower courtyards - distantly the Queen was outside, surrounded by a few court ladies, to enjoy the fine weather in the royal gardens.

“Queen Nashandra appears to be well today.” Velstadt commented and watched Raime exhale deeply, in some type of subdued anger. It would be easy enough to pry—to interrogate Raime and find the reason the other was this unapproachable when it came to Queen Nashandra. No doubt, King Vendrick wished to see him because of this, after all, he loved the her too dearly.

However, Velstadt didn’t and remained quiet on the manner. After all, to doubt their King and Queen was absurdity at its highest.

“You’ve been to Aldia Keep recently.” He started instead and did not miss the slight way Raime froze. “How does Lord Aldia fare?”

“Fine,” Raime answers bluntly and tense silence followed. If Raime wished to test his patience, then— “Given the circumstances, Lord Aldia has adjusted very well.”

Velstadt hummed knowingly – that Raime would approach the King’s elder, heretic of a brother did not surprise him. What did, however, was the way that Raime suddenly turned to face him and spoke, perhaps the most outrageous thing Velstadt had ever heard.

“Have you ever considered that, perhaps,” Raime said in a tone calm and clear. “The Queen is a foul creature, orchestrating the Kingdom’s demise for her own gains?”

And just as simple as that, like those black birds Raime loved so much, his words marked the start of the Drangleic’s ruin. 

Much later, when his King was no more and the Queen was just a wretched parasite, and he was just a silent sentinel in a forgotten crypt fighting against the pull of the dark, Velstadt understood that, the biggest contrast between the two, was that Velstadt’s loyalty lied in King Vendrick, while Raime’s loyalty lied in Drangleic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> velstadt is a himbo, I will die on this hill 
> 
> tbh, I feel a bit ...eh? about todays prompt because I didnt know where the hell I was going beyond the bird exchange so, Im kinda, "blank"
> 
> I do hope the contrast between the two is showcased in a good way thought, I always found it fascinating how velstadt was loyal to the person, while raime was loyal to the kingdom,
> 
> also raime did absolutely nothing wrong, he is a good boy, like, hes artorias tier good boy, the goodest of boys, I love him.  
> also haha, gerrit, raime watching the birds and velstadt watching the birdboy...gerrit--I'll see myself out


	16. friend - artorias, sif

The Kingdom of Oolacile – home of ancient sorceries, and a paradise to humans. Docile, gentle and curious humans, but also reckless to a fault—Artorias passed through these parts many, many times to fight back against the thread of the Darkwraiths, but now he feared that it was too late. Distantly, he could feel the familiar pull of the Dark, its cold tendrils burying deep beneath his armor. 

The deceptive sense of peace in the Royal Woods couldn’t ease his worries and with a sense of foreboding, Artorias charged deeper into the woods. The woods were thick – bleaker and more sinister, than he last remembered. No other soul in sight, it was just him, the sound of his armor clinking as he walked and the birdsong. If one were to listen carefully, they could even hear Sif’s soft footsteps next to him.

_Sif._

In truth, Artorias would have preferred not to bring Sif with him – it was too dangerous. However, numerous times before the pup had broken out of Anor Londo and went after him, this time much the same.

_“It seems that thy has forgotten something, Knight.” Elizabeth, one of the many forest wardens, greeted him when he arrived. “Take care not to leave those dear to us behind.”_

_Sif barked at him and Artorias scratched the back of his helmet. He did not know how Sif made it to the Royal Woods before him, but he was more worried about how to make sure his companion did not get hurt._

Sif’s nose booped his palm, gently bringing Artorias back to reality.

‘’Ah,” The knight looked down towards the wolf pup. He knelt down beside him and scratched behind his ears with the clawed finger of his gauntlet. “I told you not to come, yet here you are…”

It was meant to a scold, but Sif remained oblivious, wagging his tail and nuzzling his hand. Artorias sighed. Sif was still so young and playful, lacking discipline, that sometimes it made it hard to remember that Sif was after all, a wolf. A wild creature with whims of its own—but was Artorias not the same with how he constantly, recklessly charges in to help people and fix their problems?

“No doubt when we get back,” Artorias said amused, patting Sif’s head. “Sir Ornstein is going to reprimand us severely for running off again, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very short and to the point today, because I was going through horny hell due to ff14 + I didnt want the story to overstay its welcome + a cute scene between one of the biggest friendship duos with some dreadful foreshadowing :) 
> 
> believe it or not, artorias is my favourite dark souls character---and then its raime, but theyre about equals, so yes, birdboy and then wolfboy story, the prompts aligned nicely!!


	17. god - gwyndolin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> timeline might be a bit iffy

Gwyndolin remained still as a statue in front of the chamber. Behind its tall, stony gates, he could hear his Father, loud and angry, arguing with his eldest son, whom was equally agitated. In between the cacophony, Gwynevere’s serene voice cut clearly as a bell - it seems that his sister chose to play the role of a mediator, struggling to bring about equilibrium between the two elder Gwyns. A futile effort, Gwyndolin knew, but he respected his sister deeply for managing to keep things at least civil between the two men.

Originally, it had not been Gwyndolin’s intentions to eavesdrop on their conversation. He only wished to welcome his brother upon his return from the latest campaign – now he was trapped between the awkward silence beyond the chamber and the brewing storm inside. He could just barely make out what they were talking about.

 _Dragons. Traitor. Exile, at best—_ the words spiraled around in his mind, making his heart swell with worry and concern. _What would this mean_ , he wondered.

Eventually, the doors crack and slowly slid open. Gwyndolin moved a bit to the side, fearing that he was caught, but inside he could see that his father with his back turned towards the exist, too frustrated to pay attention to his surroundings. Gwynevere was giving him a look mixed of pity and barely subdued displeasure.

Gwyn’s eldest son stormed out of the chamber, a deep scowl on his face. Just as he passed him, he finally noticed Gwyndolin standing by the door.

“Ah, Gwyndolin…” His brother said, tension suddenly easing off his face. Now it was marred by guilt. He winced, unsure of what to say.

“Brother,” Gwyndolin started instead, trying to keep his voice even. “I am happy to see thine return.”

A brief silence settled between them and while normally, Gwyndolin did not mind the peaceful silence between them, this one was tense and heavy, as he could clearly see his elder brother looking at him, considering.

“Fare thee well, Gwyndolin.” He settled on saying eventually.

 _Wait, Brother—,_ Gwyndolin wanted to say, but the words remained in his throat like an unpleasant clump, as he watched his elder brother leave. Looking away towards the inside the chamber, he could see Gwynevere, now with her arms folded, giving Lord Gwyn a very disappointed look.

It was only until much later, that Gwyndolin indirectly learned why his father decided to erase all records of his elder brother and why his eldest choose to leave.

…

Perhaps, Gwyn wanted his eldest son to return? Perhaps, the Lord of Sunlight expected that his daughter, Gwynevere, would remain? Perhaps, and this was now Gwyndolin’s own hope, he would come to accept and trust him with Anor Londo?

But neither events happened. When the fire started to fade, it was Lord Gwyn who sacrificed himself first to its flames. Since then, countless undead were sacrificed in order to prolong the Age of Fire – each one of them believing and following the ritual of ringing the Bell of Awakening, securing the Lordvessel and venturing out to fill it with powerful souls, so that they prove they could succeed Lord Gwyn.

It was shaping into a robust tradition, with many of its component either forgotten or changed over the years. Gwyndolin oversaw each linking with great care.

“We have only thee.” Like a broken record, Gwynevere’s illusion reassured every undead that stepped into her chambers. Reassured the illusionary Gwynevere every time an undead stepped into her chambers.

He had not seen his eldest sister, nor his eldest brother in ages, and Gwyndolin found his memory has gone a bit hazy when trying to recall the details of his siblings.

The four Knights were also gone - whether lost to a tragedy, or leaving of their own choice, the only one who remained was executioner Smough.

“I would be delighted to give thine the honor of a Knight of Gwyn,” He confessed to him wryly one day. “However, the authority does not lie in me.”

Smough, understandably, had been upset, but not enough to abandon his post, something which deeply surprised Gwyndolin – for all his faults, Smough was a loyal man, just as Gwyndolin himself was loyal to his family.

A family whose legacy, Gwyndolin struggled to maintain.

Most days, Gwyndolin spend his time inside his father’s empty crypt – away from the illusionary sun’s cold light and away from the sight of the crumbling age. Alone in here, he as if inside a protective cocoon, separated from time and space.

Deep down, he knew that what he was doing was bringing more harm than good.

Unlike his elder brother, Gwyndolin did not know of the times before the Age of Fire, so the thought of humanity’s darkness overtaking their world terrified him, as it terrified his father.

He believed his father – never thought to question or challenge his words, no matter how unbearable it was. After all, Lord Gwyn and his siblings were all great lords, gods of Anor Londo, while he was a repulsive being, still clinging to an old legacy—

Gwyndolin sighed and sat up from his seat – ever since he found his little sister, Yorshka, he tried to avoid wallowing in his own regret and self-pity. Yorshka was, for the most part, like his daughter, rather than sister in the way he took care of her, and he did his utmost to protect her – she who was free from the shackles of hereditary. 

It was hard to admit, but Gwyndolin had grown quite exhausted with it, so whenever Yorshka asked for his company, it came as a welcomed respite – after all, the only thing he had left in this world was his love for his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the words of a great scholar named aldia once said, "gwyn sucks"  
> this prompt will have a follow-up part 2 in one of the next day's prompts, ft  
> a special pontiff before he was a pontiff---
> 
> todays is god and well, a story about the gods of anor londo  
> in truth, Im going to be honest and say Im not the most -confident- when it comes to writing gwyndolin, so I try
> 
> also dont worry about the yorshka and darkmoon blades thing too much, its fiiineee


	18. shield - ornstein, sif

Accustomed as he was to the wide, open spaces of Anor Londo, traversing through the thick woods, offered an embarrassing amount of difficulty for Ornstein. Occasionally, he shot a look of barely concealed disdain at Sif, whom would run ahead, only to circle back towards the knight lagging behind him with impatience. The pup seemingly opting to use the opportunity and show off his nobility.

Ever since the fall of Oolacile, a permanent darkness settled over the Royal Woods. With the Father gone, the lingering taint would disperse and no doubt the land would heal as time went by, but the scars will remain – deep chasms, ruins and remains of fallen warriors.

 _Sacrifices, all of them senseless_ , thought Ornstein bitterly. In truth, it happened, because of their own carelessness - simple, arrogant lack of attention.

This could have been averted, if they monitored Oolacile and its magician, so that they don’t get too ambitious. The anger of Primeval Man was a terrifying thing.

This could have been averted, if Anor Londo reacted faster to the growing dark influence in Oolacile and send reinforcements to contain the spread. It was someone else’s problem, until it became _their_ problem.

 _This_ could have been averted, if Artorias hadn’t ran off to fight the threat alone. Perhaps, if Ornstein too had been there, the outcome would have been different—

 _Foolish. You would just throw yourself away as another pointless sacrifice_ , the more logical part of his brain argued. But the idea of having gone with his fellow knight was not entirely unpleasant – dying together as warriors, fighting until the bitter end—it would have been a more honorable death than rotting away in Anor Londo—

 _When the dragons are gone, what will you do, Dragonslayer Ornstein?_ He recalled his forgotten mentor’s words, spoken to him right before Gwyn’s firstborn left for his exile, and felt something deep, bitter and shameful.

Sif growled at him to hurry up and Ornstein had to resist the urge to growl back. His armor’s image of a proud lion served him well thus far to keep away the prying eyes and intimidate his enemies, but here in the woods, it was just him and the beasts. There was no one to pretend for.

“Unlike you, I don’t have four legs.” He commented drily instead, content that at least Sif couldn’t talk back, unlike his former maste— _friend_ , a less spiteful part of his mind reminded him. Artorias called Sif his friend, in a way that he never even called any of his fellow knights. _Companion, comrade, compatriot_ – Artorias was a reclusive man oblivious to the social norms, who never fully integrated even as a Knight of Gwyn, no matter how hard Ornstein tried to welcome him to the pack.

He supposed that it was only fitting that Sif remained by his final resting place as a lone warden.

By the time they reached a ruined coliseum, the moon above them was bright and beautiful, its pale light illuminating the small monument in front of them – in the end, peace was restored to the ancient lands of Oolacile, but the cost was too great.

Ornstein knelt down in front of it, deep in thought.

The first one to learn about Artorias’ fall was Lord’s Blade Ciaran. Her words were brief, tone clipped. Ornstein assumed it to be her usual professionalism, but it was a bit odd to see her with this much practiced calm, in the face of a tragedy between friends and comrades. Especially, considering how deep her feelings were.

Was she omitting some kind of truth form him?

When he confronted Gough about it, the giant was equally dismissive.

“If thou hast wished to learn, thou should have come,” He told him. “But alas, thine wisdom as our leader proved better, for we now mourn one friend, instead of two.”

Ornstein exhaled deeply – the only one who he could trust to tell him the truth would be Sif, and well, Sif was _a wolf_.

“Was he in pain?” Ornstein turned his head towards Sif, who had decided to lie down next to the grave. The pup looked up him with its big, oblivious eyes. Someone, he suspected Ciaran, had propped up Artorias’ sword against the makeshift grave. The sword was chipped and broken—Ornstein wondered how this ruined, Artorias still managed to defeat the Father.

Well, of course, it _was_ Artorias, after all. Recklessly, earnest, brave Artorias—that noble fool.

“Where’s his shield?” Ornstein asked and Sif whimpered. He could only assume this to be an admission. “Where is it?” His tone grew sharper, when the realization dawned on him. Sensing the change, the wolf stood up on its legs in a defensive pose and growled. “You little—”

Sif howled and Ornstein cursed himself – to fight with Sif in front of Artorias’ grave would be unacceptable. _Unbearable._

“You were with him—you should have protected him.” He said instead, more so out of spite, but a cold feeling of acceptance quickly settled upon him. Perhaps, where the wolf had failed to protect Artorias in life, he could protect him in death. “As I too, could’ve been there.”

Sif calmed down and Ornstein honored the temporary cease-fire. He sat down in front of the monument and folded his legs, gathered his hands and lowered his head slightly in meditation.

Just for the night, he would also join Sif in protecting their friend’s final resting place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> technically, todays story is related to the previous artorias one from the prompt friend
> 
> wow, self-indulgent fic, what is this--  
> and yes, when ornstein says pack, its absolutely meant as a lion thing
> 
> anyway, shield prompt for local missing shield, taken by the chosen undead when they went back in time to clean up the mess --I feel very sad for artorias death because its very like, miserable and a bit humiliating? considering it really was a useless sacrifice in the end and his death amounts to nothing (at least the c.u. is chill and godmother elizabeth was woke with this idea of making artorias the hero, lmao)
> 
> I know ornstein has like, absolutely no line (whereas even artorias has deleted lines, lol) so Ive dug really deep in trying to build his character (brief showcasing here)


	19. night - the hunter, the doll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an endless night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a time loop AU, also includes various other characters

_Paleblood will guide your way._

…

The hunter woke up lying in front of the same unmarked grave, face pressed against the cold earth, their body sore from the most recent death. The sensation of dread spread from the bottom of their head to the top, an invasive touch grouping through their brain, threatening to split their head in half. The discomfort was further complimented by the faint tune of a music box - Mergo’s damned lullaby was so engraved in their mind, that they could hear it even in the dream. With unsteady hands, they pushed their body up to stand.

Sickness, perhaps a fever? Having gone for so long partaking in the healing blood, they would have suspected this to be the start of their descend into beasthood, but now they recognized their fatigue as plain, simple exhaustion.

Except, there was nothing plain, nor simple, about their current predicament - the hunt and the night should have ended a long time ago, but here they were waking up at the start of it. Again and again. Fighting through Yharnam, stopping the Mensis ritual, denying or bargaining with Gehrman—the events repeated in a seemingly endless loop with little to no change.

They’ve grown tired, so very tired, but _a hunter must hunt_ , and the hunt, it never ends. 

“Welcome home, good hunter. What is it you desire?" The Doll’s soothing voice would’ve once brought warmth to their chest, but not it seemed like a curse. A more, treacherous, spiteful part of them, had attempted to kill the Doll in the past, but just like everything in this wretched dream, she returned as if nothing happened.

They stumbled forward with unsteady feet and extended their hand to let the doll channel the ancient blood echoes. The doll grasped their hand, hold a bit firmer than usual, as if throwing a rope to save a drowning man. Her touch was cool, the porcelain fingers smooth against their skin, and her movement grew gentler. As if trying not to frighten a wild animal. Wordlessly, the hunter looked up to her glassy eyes – they were empty. _Inhuman._

“Farewell, good hunter. May you find your worth in the waking world." She said when the hunter eventually retreated their hand and they put on their gloves.

…

Occasionally, they thought about succumbing to beasthood. To embrace and let it consume them—take solace in their own beastly stupidity, just as so many hunters and scholars before them had. That way, they wouldn’t have to think, wouldn’t have to feel and remember.

It almost happened once, and the hunter of hunter, Eileen, almost succeeded in slaughtering them, if it hadn’t been for the fact that they’ve already fought her numerous times before, when she lost her own mind to the bloodlust due to the red moon.

Again at dusk, they meet her outside the chapel. She was, perhaps, looking at the Lesser Amygdala, which although the hunter couldn’t see it at present, they were certain the creature was there, just as certain as they were of the existence of the moon.

“Oh, hello there.” The crow hunter greeted them and the hunter still felt uneased by the friendliness in light of hostility portrayed later during the night. “Henryk, an old hunter, has gone mad.”

They nodded. This time, they made sure to bring enough poisoned blades to put him out of his misery, before they themselves and Eileen got mangled in the crossfire. It was one of the benefits of this repeated loop – it brought experience and knowledge, so that perhaps, they may pave the path of a lesser tragedy.

Ignoring her warning, the hunter trekked back to the cemetery – they’ve seen it many times before, how the blood eroded their humanity, but their regrets remained, which is why the hunter resisted the temptation. Whether Gascoigne’s dying scream—or the desperate way that fiery beast in the Nightmare Cathedral fought to reclaim its memories, it was all a haunting reminder that not even bloodlust would save them.

…

“It wasn’t your fault.” They said one time, but their comment failed to calm him and was lost to the fallen hero’s wailing. A brief moment of hesitance passed before the hunter gripped the handle of their weapon. With a swift blow, they ended his agony. 

After this depressingly unsuccessful attempt to reason with Ludwig the Holy Blade, the hunter resorted to mimicry and lying.

_Yes, the church hunters were the honorable Spartans you wished them to be._

_Yes, the church hunters were good people._

_Yes, they were._

_Yes._

_Yes._

Each time, the first church hunter sounded no less thankful than before and each time, the lie felt no less easy than before for the hunter to say.

…

There was a sense of inevitability as time went by – although they could alter events, they could not avert them. The outcome to every tragedy and victory was the same, and it brought a desperate, melancholic sense of acceptance as the hunter found themselves falling into a steady routine through the night.

“You’re a hunter with your sanity, aren’t you? Must’ve taken a wrong turn then, eh?” They heard the familiar greeting, when they approached Simon, but this time they didn’t stop their stride – they ignored him and simply went to unlock the door to the chapel. The hunter heard Simon huff in amusement behind them.

“The silent type, huh?”

On the way back, they couldn’t help but stop, offering Simon a pitying look. They have perhaps done this a few times before, so now they attempted something different.

“If you continue pursuing this secret, you will get killed.” Their voice was monotone and dispassionate, but with undertones of exhaustion. That seemed to have momentarily wiped the smug tone off the former church hunter’s expression and instead he frowned.

“Is that a threat?” The accusation was coated with thinly-veiled, poisonous spite. “Fancy meeting a church sympathizer this deep in the nightmare.” Simon cursed after them and the hunter pretended to ignore. It felt liberating get it off their chest, but the damage was done. Simon was unlikely to trust them this loop.

Deeper into the nightmare, they found Simon’s mangled corpse hanging from the steps up to the Astral Clock tower – it appears that this time the patients got to him before he could advance towards the Fishing Hamlet. 

_A pity_ , they thought dully, because now Brador’s prey was them and they’ve still yet to climb the tower.

…

A laugh echoed in the dark hallways.

"Ooh! Majestic! A hunter is a hunter, even in a dream.”

By now, the hunter knew Micolash well enough to predict where the Mensis scholar would run towards. Which corridors he would turn and how to guide and trap him in his own trap.

_Now, he will go into the mirror and—_

With another gleeful laugh, the scholar jumped in the mirror as it glowed brightly. The hunter did not bother checking the mirror and instead immediately turned back and climbed up the stairs, towards the drop-point. By now, they would argue, they knew he inside of the labyrinth better than the scholar himself.

"Let us sit about, and speak feverishly. Chatting into the wee hours of… New ideas, of the higher plane!" His howl’s echoed in the hallways, loud and obnoxious. The hunter would have preferred to hunt an actual beast, as opposed to this poor attempt at hide-and-seek.

The hunter dropped on the balcony from above, just as Micolash howled again in mock imitation. The scholar turned, grin wide and managed to avoid the first slash. He outstretched his hand and—

“Have you not grown tired of this repeated charade?” Micolash’s voice was low, but it suddenly sounded so very close and deep in their ears. The hunter froze on their spot, perplex, and for their brief moment of distraction, they received the gift of Ebrietas’ augurs – the manifestation tore through their flesh, sending them back to the dream. As they were dying, they watched Micolash’s hand outstretch and head bow slightly in respect.

When they went back to fight him again, Micolash acted as if nothing had happened, but for the next few loops, his words and laugher haunted the hunter.

…

“Oh, Laurence… Master Willem… Somebody help me…”

Gehrman was crying in his sleep again and in these moments, the hunter felt a deep sympathy for the old man. Sympathy, that was also marred jealousy - unlike them, Gehrman still had the luxury of hope for someone ridding him of this cursed nightmare. Still, the pity usually won over and the hunter never told him the truth. Despite it all, Gehrman was a prisoner of the Dream, much like how the hunter was a prisoner of time.

With a tired sigh, the hunter went to the front of the workshop, where the doll was waiting for them. Again and again, every single time.

“Welcome home, good hunter. What is that you desire?”

The hunter outstretched their hand and the doll accepted with quiet reverence – they haven’t attempted small talk with her in a while, not since they were still new to the dream and the hunt, and sough companionship. 

_“I am a doll, created by you humans. Would you ever think to love me? Of course… I do love you. Isn't that how you've made me?”_

They recalled her world and felt cold dread travel down their spine. Perhaps noticing their distress, the Doll studied them with her glassy eyes.

“Good hunter, is something wrong?”

Their chest heaved as they struggled to control their breathing. “It’s nothing.” They answered quietly.

They’ve seen her original in the abandoned old workshop—they knew that the Doll was a soulless automaton, whose purpose was to care for the new hunter and embolden their flesh with the power of blood echoes of fallen foes. It was difficult to tell what she was thinking or feeling with her emotionless, porcelain face.

Was it a fool’s wish to expect anything else from the Doll?

Their hand retreated and they hastily put on their gloves, the Doll’s glass eyes tracking every movement. Only when they turned to leave, they heard her quiet voice again.

“Dear hunter…” The Doll started and hesitated. The hunter glanced at her. “

 _This was new_ , they thought.

…

The hunter did not accept her offer at first, but eventually they came to her on their own – after having grown quite haggard and recalling the Doll’s promise of respite.

She led them to the small garden on the side of the workshop, where the Doll laid out an old blanket with a faded pattern close to the little one’s trunk. They both sat down to chat – the usual idle talk about the hunt, this time the Doll offering to tell stories of past hunters.

Listening to her calming voice, the hunter found themselves dozing off and the Doll guided them to lie down, with their head resting on her lap. 

“Good hunter…My good hunter.” Her slim fingers brushed their hair, gently untangling the stray strands of hair. The hunter’s eyes were closed, breath even – exhausted as they were, it was not hard to fall asleep. The fabric of her dress was, predictably, very soft.

The Doll could not feel the warmth of their head on her thigh, but deep inside her hollow chest, she felt a glowing heat, similar, albeit more intense than the one she felt, when the hunter gifted her with that small hairpin all those nights ago. They still did, occasionally, and every time the Doll reacted with the same sort of joy and surprise.

Was this selfishness no different than the ones the gods possessed when they loved and yearned so feverishly for a surrogate? Or the love from the humans who created her?

_If the hunter is gone then who will love me? Will I revert back to an empty husk?_

She was a doll – she could only offer what was already given, her existence validated, by the love of those who gave saw use for her. A reason, and it had always been affection – Gehrman had grown to resent her, so whenever there were no hunters, her fleeting existed withering away, as if sinking to the bottom of the sea, waiting for someone to pull her to the surface.

Such as this hunter. After all, if they did not love her, then why was she still on the surface?

“That’s right. I am needed…” Her voice was quiet, out of fear for waking the good hunter.

The hunter mumbled something in their sleep – too unintelligible to make it out, but it sounded as anguished as Gehrman’s tortured sleep. The Doll’s hand froze and she remained still as a statue, unsure of what to do or say, to help ease them. To watch one’s loved one suffer was unbearable, even more so when she was the cause of their suffering.

Feeling flustered, and guilty, when the hunter had gone off to hunt, she retreated back to the familiar grave close to the house where she prayed and begged.

“Oh Flora, of the moon, of the dream. O little ones, O fleeting will of the ancients...It appears my wish has brought much anguish to the hunter. Please, I—”

But no matter how much she called, there was only the cold silence.

…

The hunter woke up at the unmarked grave. They went to fight the Blood-starved beast, succumbed to its blood’s poisonous fumes, and they died.

The hunter woke up at the unmarked grave. They ran up the steps towards the Cathedral Ward, where the Church Hunters caught and clubbed them, their blood spilling all over the steps leading up to the Cathedral, and they died.

The hunter woke up at the unmarked grave. They heard the Orphan’s wails and felt the same burning hate and fear, the old hunters once felt for its mothers. The two fought on the desolate beach, but the hunter slipped on the wet sand and the creature lunged at them, screeching and tearing, and they died.

The hunter woke up at the unmarked grave. They met Gehrman under the large tree and accepted his offer, knowing that not long after, they would awake in the dream again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the prompt is night - and here we have, an endless night
> 
> in truth, this is all based on a time loop au wip I had that was meant to be longer, but I kinda scrapped it because no time and energy. but yes, the idea is that the doll loves the hunter and accidentally got them stuck in a time loop, and that yes. micolash does indeed 100% know, and it was meant to be some cooperation between mico and the hunter
> 
> today feels a bit...clumsy? but I tried to build a metaphorical scene of two drowning individuals trying to save each other   
> also screams, second time I wrote lap pillow in this series, its my wEAKNESS


	20. traitor - pate, creighton

Pate watched the warrior with growing amusement – the stranger walked past him at least four times thus far, very obviously having lost his way. Certainly, while the forest was thick and full of traps, but to be this completely lost—Pate did not know whether to laugh or weep for the poor fool.

The warrior walked in a frantic manner, as if running away, and Pate idly wondered what kind of trouble would warrant such worry and panic? Pate recent tale he heard from a trader – a warning about a murder who escaped the forces of justice and now roamed the land. Judging by the borrowed armor of a Mirrah knight that looked too big and imposing for someone like him, and the way his stranger gripped his axe, Pate was going to guess he stumbled upon this escapee.

That just made things easier.

By the seventh time he circled back, the warrior stopped to catch his breath by the bonfire, and while still oblivious to Pate sitting on top of a nearby rock, he sat down right next to him, almost bumping into his folded leg. He exhaled, shoulders relaxed and looked up towards the greying clouds.

 _No, he can’t have serious not seen me—_ Pate couldn’t resist the huff of amusement and now _that_ appeared to have alerted him. The warrior jumped up with a yelp and immediately took a battle stance.

“Who are you?” He barked at him. Pate studied him, unworried – behind the rock he was sitting on, the grip on his spear was firm and ready to strike. This close, he was at an advantage against the warrior. “Answer me, dammit!”

“You’re pretty far away from Mirrah, aren’t you?” Pate said instead, watched with deep interest at the way the warrior stilled. “But then again, I’ve heard that a murder escaped his execution recently, perhaps you’re here to bring him to justice, hm?” The warrior remained still, except that now the grip on his axe was so firm, that Pate could see his hands tremble lightly.

“Yeah,” He answered after a long silence, tone clipped. “You could say that.” Pate chuckled and stood up, his own grip of his spear remaining firm as well. Instantly, the Mirrah warrior’s eyes widened in alert, but he did not attempt to strike him. Not yet at least. _Too gullible perhaps_ , Pate thought.

“I’m Pate.”

“Creighton.” He answered curtly and Pate nodded. He extended his other hand and offered a handshake – Creighton watched it with intense curiosity and cautious before taking it. His grip was harsher than expected – perhaps an attempt to show dominance, Pate considers.

Their hands separate eventually, Pate pleased with how easily he managed to distract and disarm him from his alert state. This would be quite easy, indeed.

“Well, Creighton,” He stared, tone polite, despite the cold, blue eyes now glaring at him. “Perhaps I could make you an offer,” The faux Mirrah knight remained silent, which Pate took as a que to continue. “Why don’t we join forces? While I am certainly no noble knight of Mirrah such as yourself, I can hold my own against the scourge, and together we could find bigger treasure.”

Upon hearing the words treasure, he could practically see the way Creighton’s eyes were glittering with excitement. The bait was successful.

“Awfully kind of you to offer this to complete strangers, eh Pate?” Creighton spat at him, his tone extra disdainful upon uttering his name. Pate’s lips curled into a smile – he wondered how his name would sound when Creighton was screaming it in rage. “How can you trust I’m not that killer you spoke off prouncing around as a knight of Mirrah?”

“Well, if I were speaking to that supposed murderer right now,” Pate paused and licked his lower lip, held back a laugh. “Wouldn’t I be butchered by now?” He answered simply. Creighton blinked, considered his words carefully and nodded. “In addition, together we would both be safe from this hypothetical murderer, since we would have enough strength to overpower this foul barbarian. Two is stronger than one.”

“Then,” Creighton swallowed. “How do I know you won’t backstab me, when I least expect it?”

Pate ignored the question, but then again Creighton only offered a moment of hesitation before deciding to follow him as Pate gestured for him to follow. “This path leads to a particularly valuable treasure, I can assure you this much. It will just be to ourselves and no cruel murderer or petty noble can take it from us.”

Creighton stopped walking and laughed. Pate turned his head back to him.

“I like you Pate,” He told him. “I think you and I will get along, quite well.”

“Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg I was so tired today I almost dipped + got distracted watching dark souls 3 pvp memes and discussing the wonders of p8cr8--anyway
> 
> todays prompt is traitor, and who else but everyones favourite uh, murderers (then again who isnt) from ds2  
> I live for creighton zero braincells and pate subtly insulting/playing with him   
> also, tomorrows prompt is technically gonna be a part 2 to this,


	21. ring - pate, creighton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a continuation of the previous days'

Their little _duet_ went on for longer than expected. So much so, that some small semblance of domestic peace grew between them – they hunted for treasure together, they looted together, they killed together. Therefore, settling down to continue their exploits, only seemed like the reasonable thing to do.

“Oi, Pate!”

“Hmm?”

“What’s the point of all of,” Creighton gestured with his hands towards the room they were in. “This shit?”

“It’s a base, Creighton.” Pate answered plainly. It was a bit of a dump - cluttered with items and crates, they claimed a small, rackety shed in Brightstone Cove Tseldora. It offered a little fort of sorts, a place of stability in this decaying land and some place they knew they could return to.

 _Almost as if we’re married_ , Pate considered and Creighton straight up admitted one night when the latter was particularly high and incoherent after digesting poison moss to cure himself. 

“I can see that. I ain’t blind, you daft punk,” Creighton yelled back. “I am asking you what the point of all of this is?”

Pate shrugged. “You could call it a place to store the dead bodies.”

Creighton scoffed. By now, close as they’ve grown to be, they needn’t pretend that Creighton wasn’t a fugitive. If anything, the man admitted it himself numerous times before whenever he tried to recall details of his past – usually upon Pate’s urging.

“Whatever…How do we know some bastard isn’t going to break in? I could practically punch through the wall.”

“I would ask you to refrain from doing that,” Pate said, mildly amused. He would have liked to see that – as pathetic as it looked, the mud which made the houses was as sturdy enough to withstand almost anything any of them could muster. Its plainness was deceitful in nature. “You worry too much, Creighton.”

“I don’t.” Creighton said and chuckled. “If my cut’s gone, I’ll just take yours.”

Pate did not dignify that with an answer. Per their little arrangement, they split everything in half, however, Pate being the one who handled the accounting, with Creighton oblivious to it – he had taken advantage of his position. He’d acquired many treasures this way - after all, a lie is not a lie if you’re not caught.

He examined the tiny ring in his hand with growing interests. It was covered in many tiny thorns – sharp enough for them to dig into his glove’s leather. Idly, he wondered what the point of a ring damaging his wearer was, but ultimately decided not to part with it.

“What’s that?” Creighton was suddenly next to him, peeking above his shoulder. His eyes fixated on it with rapt interests and the sudden change in demeanor was not missed by Pate.

“It’s a family heirloom,” He lied, suddenly feeling possessive of it. “I inherited it, when my father passed away.”

In truth, he picked it up from a random corpse when Creighton wasn’t looking.

“So its something that’s always belonged to you?” There was something strange underlying Creighton’s tone. Caution? Pate couldn’t help himself, but probe.

“That’s right.” He answered with a pleased tone. “Ever since I started traveling, I’ve always had it hidden on me. My little treasure.” Creighton nodded his head slowly and straightened his back, now looking down at Pate.

“You and your pops…were you close?”

 _No_ , but Creighton needn’t know that. “You could say that.”

Creighton didn’t say or ask anything else and retreated back to the corner of the room, where he was busy tending to his weapon. Pate suspected that the gear wasn’t Creighton’s own, but looted, however the warrior kept it in surprisingly good shape. In that regard, the both had something in common.

“Oi, Pate.” Creighton said after a long stretch of silence.

“What is it now?”

Creighton hesitated for a brief moment and then finally said, “When you die, I want that ring of yours.”

 _Feeling sentimental?_ Pate wanted to tease, but instead he chuckled. What an odd question.

“That’s assuming you don’t die before me.” He settled on saying eventually and Creighton scoffed.

“As if I’d die before a weakling like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today's prompt is ring, and I was like, huh, guess creighton wants the ring just cos he thinks it's pate's, lol  
> also, todays simple as well---does this count for the domestic tag?
> 
> a bit shorter, but I ended up going aggro over a different draft and now I wanna go decorate my house over at ff14


	22. light - the choir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning; decapitation, grievous bodily harm  
> I dont think it's written in a particularly graphic way, but hey

_At times, failure is the mother of invention._

…

The Lumenflower garden in Upper Cathedral Ward was particularly noisy that night.

“Curses…bastards…”

By now, the Yahar’gul hunter was down on their knees, struggling to breathe due to the build-up of panic, as the whip around their throat continued to constrict. The sharp metal dug into the leather of their gloves, to the point of scrapping flesh and the hunter made a desperate attempt to stop it from digging further.

“How did a sewer rat like you make its way up here?” They pulled lightly, and the Yahar’gul hunter groaned as the metal cut deeper, and warm, sticky blood stained their ruined gloves. “That’s quite a distance away from your little nest.”

The hunter mumbled something, perhaps another curse, and the Choir Member chuckled, as they watched the poor thing fight against it like a trapped animal. _Pitiful beast._

The Threaded Cane was a simple, elegant weapon. Commissioned by the Healing Church for its own blood ministers, the cane was designed by master weaponsmith Gehrman himself, back when he was still alive. A straight, double-edged sword in the form of a cane, that can transform into a segmented, bladed whip - it was an easy to underestimate, deadly tool, especially in the hands of skilled fighters.

“The more you struggle, the worse it’ll get.” They warned, tone uncaring and unbothered by the distressed Yahar’gul hunter clawing at it to set themselves free, but only drawing more and more of that nauseating blood. “Tell me, who employs you hunters?”

The Yahar’gul hunter remained silent, biting their lip from behind the cage. Either due to their foolish pride or fear, they refused to indulge them with information.

Although the Choir member knew which faction stood behind these stray hunters, they wanted the satisfaction of hearing a direct admission – a confirmation of their hypothesis. However, instead they felt the small sting of petty anger. Does this just mean that the School was a more terrifying force than the Choir? They pulled the whip, rougher now, no longer mercifully playing with their prey. Its blades cut past leather, flesh and cloth, cutting into the soft skin of their throat. The hunter yelled and begged, but did they not indulge them with anything more useful.

“A pity,” They commented coolly. It was time to deal with the intruder daring to sneak into Upper Cathedral Ward – the Choir’s domain.

Cutting through bone and cartilage always took a more strenuous effort – a heavier weapon would have been more useful, and merciful. The Yahar’gul screamed like a pig, until they started chocking on their own blood. At the rate they were going, they would die from the shock and blood loss, before their head was severed from their shoulders. Blood stained and pooled around their knees and under the moonlight it looked dark—darker than the depths of the sea.

When the brutish deed was done and over with, the Choir member retracted back their whip in its traditional, cane form and they heard clapping behind their back.

“You managed to handle the runaway,” Another one of the Choir approached them, dressed in the same, non-identifying garb and cap. “I found two of them at the Orphanage gate and suspected a third. Thank you for dealing with them.”

“It was nothing,” They answered with a slight bow. “I am disappointed that none of the guard dogs below managed to spot them. I reckon hunters should be more aware than this,” They gestured to the corpse behind them. “It’s a disgrace.”

“But they are trying their best!” The other one argued. “We cannot fault those still unable to perceive the truth.”

“And let them remain in blissful ignorance?” They scoffed and shook their cane, in an attempt to wipe away the foul blood. “I think not. They should be made aware, so that they do not allow disturbance to our work in the future.”

“To force growth, will only spell our doom.” Their fellow argued. They were younger than them – their face, or at least what could be seen from it, more childish and round. “We need to thread with caution, otherwise—”

“Otherwise, _what_?” They bit back and saw the other one’s face turn downcast. Immediately they regretted the bluntness of their words. “I am sorry, my dear sibling, but I cannot stand hiding in the dark as if—as if what we are doing is wrong!”

The younger one remained silent, as if in thought. The Choir, like the Healing Church and the School of Mensis, sought the ascension of mankind into Greatness. However, they disproved of their methods – unlike the Church’s recklessness and the School’s brutality, the Choir pursued enlightened through insight gained from the abandoned daughter, Ebrietas, and together they hoped to reach the Cosmos, in a way, returning to the mild-mannered approach rooting back to Byrgenwerth. It was not that odd – many of the higher senior members of the Choirs were previous scholars of Byrgenwerth, or students of students who studied there, including disciples of Master Laurence himself. These disciples, usually orphans, were children trained to take over and pave the way to said ascension.

However, in truth they were plagued by the same problem as the School of Mensis – both factions grew and nourished from the Healing Church, but they remained in its shadow, struggling to break free from the shackles of their own cradle.

“For now, we can only wait,” The young one said eventually, unable to come up with a satisfying conclusion and while their peer did not fault them, they still folded their arms in discontent. “One day, our time will come and who knows, perhaps all three of us could cooperate.” They said, tone hopeful.

The other Choir member mumbled in answer. “As if Master Laurence and Master Micolash could ever work togeth—”

For a split moment the observatory tower above their head illuminated by a blinding light, as if a led beacon, and they heard the sound of an explosion. Shocked, both Choir members looked up and saw that all the glass of the windows were shattered and the tower was gravely dark.

…

_“It is within our nature to be curious,”_ These words were one of Master Laurence’s first lessons. _“And it is this natural curiosity that will guide us to the ascension.”_

_“Humanity, foolish as it is, differentiates from the beasts because of this – with its unbound desire to discover the Truth and reach the Cosmos—to reach the realm of the Gods. Our only constraint is our own fears and blindness.”_

The Cosmos and its greatness was a vast concept – deeper than the secrets, which the Phtumerians were privy to. They were blessed, but not enough to escape their own coils of humanity, which is why their civilization eventually succumbed to ruin and obscurity. However, from their mistakes, the Choirs could learn – from all of those that sough greatness in the past, the Choir learnt.

They would not succumb to the same weakness that their forefathers did, so perhaps, their encounter with the abandoned Great one was divine destiny, rather than chance or luck – following the augurs like a trail, the found Ebrietas. Now and together, they look to the skies, in search of astral signs, that may lead them to the rediscovery of true greatness.

A few of them, laboring under the presumption that these phantasms were they key, attempted to use them in their research and reached a lofty plane of darkness – darkness so deep and profound, as if they were at the bottom of the ocean, crushed and burned by its wild pressure.

The result had been remarkable—the path to the higher reaches momentarily opened - distant, tiny lights ignited like little suns which collapsed on themselves in tiny explosions of sparks and color, searing through flesh, and decadent, sweet blood spilled on the floor—but ultimately, it had been a disastrous failure, as the path closed just as quickly as it appeared.

The room was dark and full of dust and smoke.

Blearily, the Choir member realized that they were still alive, but they could not feel their body, as if their consciousness was floating amongst the numb clouds. They found that their legs were shivering, but they had no control over them, as if having a mind of their own whist still connected to their torso. They struggled to turn to their head—and realized that they could not move further or sit up. They could not feel it, but they could see the blood pooling beneath the heavy cabinet, which crushed their arm.

Awareness came quick after that. They coughed and wheezed, feeling profound agony – surely the sign of a broken rib or two, amongst other things. The smell of burnt. human flesh assaulted their senses and they had to resist the urge to gag and empty the content of their stomach, least their choke to their death.

“Ah…” They moaned, feeling their throat raw, as if they were screaming for a long time.

“Do you know where you are?” The cool and composed voice of their caretaker sounded above them and they nodded, feeling immense relief. So much so that they started weeping.

“Upper Cathedral Ward.” They sobbed.

The senior Choir member examined them with practiced professionalism and gestured to their side. Three other members quickly and carefully cleared the debris constricting their fallen peer and the senior member swiftly injected a blood vial into the wrist of their good hand.

The relief came momentarily—the Choir had accesses to the best of the best, when it came to healing blood. They clutched their broken limb and tried to breath, as they felt the pervasive, tingling sensation of flesh mending itself—transforming into something whole and great once again. The pain was rapturous, rather than torturous.

“Are you well?” The senior Choir member asked and they nodded.

When its tender sensitivity returned, they flexed their hand and saw it responsive. They felt all giddy – cheeks flushed and warm from the effects of the blood. “Yes, thank you.”

Once she finished tending to them, the senior Choir member stood up to assess the damage properly – the room was a mess of broken furniture and splattered remains of two members. The leaders of the experiment—another senior member, one of Master Laurence’s first disciples and a loyal follower since his days as a student in Byrgenwerth, looked as if their body exploded on the inside out, like a supernova. A tragic loss of a mentor, but sometimes sacrifices were necessary for sake of progress.

The student behind her was still shivering as they tried to wipe their nose and dried tears with the sleeve of their blood-stained. charred robe in an effort to look more presentable to the best of their abilities.

“How dreadful.” She commented flatly.

In truth, she was more of a caretaker, than a scholar - she cared for the young minds harvested by the church and the malformed patients brought back from the Astral Clocktower to be given a second chance at ascension. She was a tall, brittle woman with ashy brown hair and looked old - aged prematurely due to life, rather than the passage of time. Unlike the other members, she still wore the white garb of a blood minister.

“The Cosmos denied us.” The student answered, trying to keep their voice even. Although their body did not need it, they craved more blood to deal with the stress of the traumatic experience.

“That I can see,” She said flatly and then bend down, grabbing something tiny and glowing. “But I can also see that perhaps, it was not so disastrous.” She commented. In contrast, the student beamed, when they saw the tiny creature in her hands. A small, slug-like augur, with a glimpse of the cosmos etched into its skin.

“To think that—” They mumbled, struggling to form words all of a sudden, when she gave it back to them. They held the tiny creature with great care in their pawns, fearful should _anything_ happen to it. “Our dear colleague did not die in vain…!” They said, feeling the edges of their eyes brimming with tears again.

“I am certain that Master Laurence appreciates their sacrifice and will find a fitting way to honor it," The senior Choir member said, still emotionless, but the student knew that her well enough to tell that her words were sincere. “I need to report to the Vicar,” She said and paused looked at her young peer, considering. “Perhaps, he would prefer to hear about your breakthrough personally.”

Upon hearing that, the young Choir member grinned, barely resisting the urge to let out a cheer at being given the honors to report their newest findings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ludwig the next day: did you fire off fireworks last night? there was a lot of noise up there  
> laurence, nodding his head slowly: you could say that,
> 
> *resisting the urge to put a tower of babel metaphor*  
> also if "dear sibling" for gender-neutral dear brother/dear sister, sounds weird, then rain, know I trusted you!!
> 
> anyway - todays theme is "light" and I figured, hey since a metaphorical take on "dark" with the yahar'gul hunter and mensis...heres the theme "light" in its literal interpretation and the choir + some of the tasty drama 
> 
> now the relationship between the choir and Laurence is imo very complicated so lets just leave it that,


	23. invader - lautrec, solaire

When he came to Anor Londo to finish his business, the Keeper’s soul still in his grasp, he did not expect to encounter a Warrior of Sunlight. What he assumed to be a call for retribution turned into opportunity, as Lautrec decided that perhaps this would be a bountiful harvest, when he realized that the other did not notice his presence.

Lautrec studied the strange knight with a caution. The Chosen Undead talked at lengths about him - Solaire was his name, they told him. A great knight, they said, but to see the man himself, the knight of the goddess felt the bitter sting of disappointment. Looking at him, there was nothing remarkable about his attire or the way he carried himself. _And where are his damn gauntlets?_

The Warriors of Sunlight were an odd bunch. Lautrec knew about them, even killed a few for the sake of his goddess, but the encounters always left him unsatisfied. For a knight of the goddess to deal with these poor, blind fools—Lautrec pitied them for following the teachings of a long lost, forgotten God. At least his beloved goddess would never abandon him.

He stalked a safe distance behind him, mindful of not alerting the guards and waited for an opportunity to strike and harvest his humanity. Anor Londo, with its bright sunrays ad vast, open areas left little opportunity for stealth. However, if it were to come to blows, Lautrec was confident, that he would win.

For his part, Solaire appeared blissfully oblivious as he charged deeper into the city, perhaps a bit too recklessly, the knight of the goddess considered – the stony guards didn’t seem to pose any real thread to the Warrior of Sunlight and Lautrec found himself reconsidering his evaluation and intentions.

Where did this power—this, this conviction, come from? Perhaps he should investigate first.

The fool fought straight ahead through the guards and after a moment of hesitation, Lautrec also followed—Was this why the Chosen Undead held them at such a high regard? Later on, Lautrec considered that deciding to satisfy his curiosity of his had been a terrible idea.

…

By the time Solaire reached the bonfire in one of the small side rooms on the inside the cathedral, Lautrec was seated by it and waiting for him, having slipped past the guards on the side of the building, instead of charging front and center. A part of him was surprised to see the Warrior of Light made it this far.

The two warriors briefly exchanged glances at each other in a tense silence, Lautrec mildly surprised that perhaps the other realized who he was and why he was here—

“Oh, it’s a bit odd to see a traveler around these parts,” Solaire said, tone casual. Lautrec could not sense even a hint of hostility coming from him. “What brings you here, my friend?”

“Ah, it is a bit embarrassing to admit, but it appears I have gotten myself dreadfully lost, you see…” Solaire bought the lie and nodded, “Do you, perhaps know your way around this castle.”

“Of course, I would be happy to show you around!” Solaire beamed, and sat down right next to him. “Oh, how terribly rude of me to not introduce myself.” He chuckled, “I am Solaire of Astora, an adherent of the Lord of Sunlight. I came to this land to find my own sun.”

 _Seek his own sun?_ Lautrec did not ponder upon it any further. “I am Knight Lautrec of Carim.”

“Carim?” The Warrior of Sunlight hummed in consideration. “I do not know what brought you to this strange land, but to encounter each other must be nothing short of fate.”

Lautrec answered with a nervous laugh of his own. “Perhaps.”

Warriors of Light were known for helping others, and Lautrec would be caught in a lie, if he were to say that Solaire hadn’t been useful when it came to clearing the way. No doubt, that Chosen Undead would chase after him, so he needed to prepare a proper welcome for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anor londo random npc encounters---Idk, I just find the idea of solaire charging thru the front gates (which is the reason that anor londo is on high alert) while lautrec just kinda followed behind, glad that the way was cleared, pretty funny
> 
> (unfortunately I kinda flailed with writing today so questionable performance, tehee)  
> also the prompt being a more friendly take on "invader" where lautrec was like, oh yay humanity into "I dont wanna fight That"


	24. illusion - gwyndolin, sulyvahn, yorshka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continuation of prompt 17, "god"

“You say you claim to come here from the Profaned Capital?”

“Indeed, my lord.” Answered Sulyvahn.

It had been a long time since Gwyndolin didn’t feel as lonely walking through these hallways. Sulyvahn was his name, and this strange traveler claimed to be a refugee from the Profaned Capital. It was lost to a recent tragedy – consumed by fire after Yhorm the Giant became a Lord of Cinder, and now it remained as a grave monument of past failures. To think that linking the fire could cause such a disastrous effect—Gwyndolin would have to be more careful in the future with how he chose his pawns.

However, a deeper, more treacherous part of him wondered how long this cycle would continue and when would he be finally freed? The Sun’s rays were deceptive and his talent for illusions could not hide the freezing winds of the decaying world anymore. Rumors were quick to spread and Anor Londo grew deserted as more and more Lords and humans opted to take refuge in the valley below. Although Gwyndolin felt betrayed, he did not blame them – after all, he himself was terrified of seeing what Anor Londo’s true state was.

Was it as cold and hollow as New Londo?

“Luck played no small part in my survival,” Sulyvahn commented. “But sometimes I wonder whether this was a blessing or a curse?”

“What does thou mean?” Gwyndolin inquired. In truth, although it had been a short while since they were acquitted, Gwyndolin was rather fond of Sulyvahn and his humble origins as a court magician to the old kingdom. Sulyvahn was a charismatic, talented young warrior, whom was not afraid to speak his mind to him in a respectful manner and the old Lord found himself appreciating his honesty and opinions. It had been ages since he could indulge in conversation with others.

In other words, perhaps the loneliness and the coldness of Anor Londo was beginning to affect Gwyndolin.

“Indeed, while I consider myself fortunate to survive the fires, now the burden of my nation’s end falls on my shoulders.”

Gwyndolin paused and considered his words. “Indeed, it is an awful thing to live with.”

“Perhaps,” Sulyvahn said, tone careful. “But in the end, I cannot find it within myself to fault them for their foolishness, for they too were simple beings, struggling to preserve that what little they have left in this cruel world.”

Gwyndolin did not answer to that, and instead continued his stride deeper in the citadel—towards what little left he had and wanted to preserve in this world.

…

Yorshka heard a gentle knock on her door and practiced jumped out of her chair. Her brother had warned her that he wanted to introduce her to someone and she suddenly felt fussy and self-conscious of her appearance all over again. No matter what, she would not—could not shame her dear brother, Gwyndolin.

“Please enter.” She said, despite her hesitation and the door to her room opened with a slight creek. She bowed, as her brother, followed by a strange-looking man dressed in tattered robes enter the room. When she raised head to meet them, she saw that the man carried two, intricate-looking swords him.

“Yorshka, this is Sulyvahn, a refugee from the Profaned Capital.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” Sulyvahn bowed, the swords attached to his side dangled lightly.

“The pleasure is all mine,” She answered and smiled. It was a rarity to see Gwyndolin accept guests, but it appears that this was another showcasing of her brother’s benevolent nature, when he offered sheltered to this wayward warrior. “Perhaps, you would also like to meet Lady Gwynevere.” Yorshka offered and immediately regretted her words, when she saw Gwyndolin frown. The air in the room was all of a sudden freezing cold.

“Yes…” Sulyvahn bowed his head lightly. “It would be an honor to meet your elder sister.”

 _Your elder sister_ , few people would acknowledge Yorshka’s heritage – she felt a comforting warmth swell in her chest.

Beside them, Gwyndolin nodded his head lightly and turned to Sulyvahn, whom moved closer to the window to look outside. “All in due time, we would not want to overwhelm our guest.”

That, and the fact that it would be harder to deceived a skilled magician such as Sulyvahn, compared to your average Undead. After all, Gwyndolin knew that the mysterious, soft glow covering one of his swords in battle originated from magic, rather than miracles – Sulyvahn was no stranger to illusions and deceit. It was, again, another thing Gwyndolin could not fault him for – the old Lords hated sorcery with a passion and although he himself managed to overcome this hate, he could understand if Sulyvahn felt self-conscious of his talents.

“Indeed,” Sulyvahn nodded as well, attention focused back on the siblings. “I am certain that while I spend my time here documenting my accounts of the Profaned Flame and learning more about the royal family, there will be plenty of opportunity to meet Lady Gwynevere.”

After a short talk of mundane nature, the two departed Yorshka’s room and returned to the cold hallways of Anor Londo. As they walked in silence and Sulyvahn appeared as if lost in thought.

He appeared as if lost in thought.

“What is wrong?” Gwyndolin asked eventually and Sulyvahn chuckled.

“So, my lord,” He started, tone calm. “Just how many ‘Chosen Undeads’ did you trick?”

Gwyndolin did not indulge him with an answer. Instead, this marked the beginning of doubt that perhaps, he wasn’t the only master of illusions left in Anor Londo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooooooooo....gwyndolin just wanted a friend...and that ended up badly, yikes
> 
> also Im in a bit of a writing funk, so the stories feel a bit like squeezing them out but this one goes with the idea that sulyvahn was a scholar-refugee whom was going to work in anor londo but ended up becoming gwyndolins "friend" and thats how connections started
> 
> snek boys lonely


	25. curse - vendrick, dragon acolyte

_King Vendrick condemned his own elder brother to the mansion. They both sought the truth, but through different means, and their fervor meant the eventual withering of their familial ties_. – Aldia Key, item description.

…

To reason with his elder brother was perhaps foolishness, but Vendrick would never had considered this route, if the situation wasn’t as dire as it was. Vendrick solemnly recalled how it was a King’s purpose to unite his people, yet he could not even agree with his own brother.

Drangleic was falling apart, unraveling at its seams. The war continued for far longer than predicted – his army and his population was ravaged by its ruin, and the ongoing Undead curse. Morale, low as it was, dipped even lower, when his right-hand cut off his left-hand, while the King grew obsessed with finding the truth, after resolved himself to find a cure for the curse.

His Queen’s comforting words of predictions were untrue—something, which Vendrick thought bitterly, was not a misspoke on her part, but intentional deceit.

Meanwhile, Aldia also sought the truth, but through means different from his own. Cruel, terrible means—means, that Vendrick, obsessed as he was, could not approve, nor permit this madness any longer. Which is why he locked his brother away to stop him, but also, perhaps as a way to ease his own shame over not intervening sooner.

 _Out of sight, out of mind, dear brother?_ Had been his final words to him and the anger Vendrick felt had not eased any less through the years.

So, he considered, Vendrick coming to this wretched keep, as a form of admission of his own mistakes and a silent apology.

There was no formal delegation accompanying him to the Aldia Keep – it was just Vendrick, here to see his elder brother. The familiar visage of the old estate was surrounded by a mist, giving the trees an eerie, terrifying look. If he were to close his eyes and listen to the howling winds, Vendrick could just about feel as if he was surrounded by those wretched giants.

While the manor had not fallen in disuse, its inside appeared deserted – no servants came to greet him, empty hallways and a harrowing silence, as if judging and mocking him for his return. Him in his armor and sword by his side, appeared unwelcomed in this scholarly estate and its intricate, delicate-looking interior.

Eventually, a servant—or perhaps a scholar, did see him wandering up the stairs and they gasped in shock.

“My King!” They immediately ran after him, their tiny frame looked dwarfed by someone of Vendrick’s stature. The scholar wore a tattered white robe, with a warped orb hood and held what appeared to be a stained hammer. “It is a pleasure to have you. Might I ask—what brings you to this Keep?”

“I’ve come to see my brother,” Vendrick said tersely, already feeling irritated by having to converse with this pesky servant, instead of being welcomed by his own brother. “Where is he?”

The scholar was practically vibrating from nervousness.

“Lord Aldia is very busy, you see—but if it’s to meet his own brother, the King, surely he will leave time, if only you could wait a bit and—ah, wait, King Vendrick!”

With a roll of his eyes, Vendrick turned and charged deeper into the manor. He knew it by heart—this being his and Aldia’s family estate, after all, so he needn’t have some ill-mannered scholar show him around. However, the scrawny scholar followed after him, shuffling their feet in a half-run in a struggle to keep up with the King’s pace.

“Lord Aldia is very ill, you see,” They squeaked out. “We would not wish to endanger the King!”

Vendrick ignored their warnings as he walked through the large, dark hallway. Strange creatures were chained and locked in cages hanging from the ceiling, but Vendrick could not bring himself to care at present – he needed to talk to Aldia.

“No, no, no—Please, don’t open that door!” The Acolyte practically screamed, when Vendrick attempted to go inside one of the side rooms and the King’s paused, squinting down at the scholar and resisting the urge to punish them for their insolence. “That’s uh—that’s the kitchen, yes! The kitchen. We wouldn’t want to disturb them while preparing dinner. If you could,” They swallowed hard and hesitated. “If you would follow me, I would lead you to Lord Aldia’s study.”

Vendrick nodded and followed them.

Aldia’s study itself also appeared abandoned, or at least nobody had used the room for a very long time. Dusty, musty and dark – the single source of light was the pale sunlight coming through the dirty window, showcasing the complete disarray of scattered parchments and towers of books thrown around the room.

“Where is my brother?” Vendrick demanded and glared down at the Acolyte. “Where is Aldia?” His voice boomed.

“Ah—hah,” The scholar was shaking like a leaf. “Maybe—the Lord has decided to go in the gardens and enjoy the fine weather outside—”

Vendrick groaned and tersely ordered them to leave. The scholar nodded and quickly scurried away, thus leaving him alone in the damp room. The King closed the door and stepped deeper into the room. 

He knelt down and skimmed through the few opens books, scanned through the parchments – their handwriting he could recognize to be his brothers, but the text on them was incomprehensible. Repeated words and phrases, scattered thoughts written down and leaps of logic, that Vendrick could never hope to decipher. Just what happened to his brother?

The air in the room stilled and Vendrick looked towards the fading light streaming from the old window – perhaps, it was just his imagination, but in its rays, he could see the familiar visage of his elder brother looking down at him, from his seat by the window.

 _“Vendrick, in the end it is you who is the fool, for you continue to desperately search for an answer, even as what little time you have left is slipping away”_ , He could practically hear Aldia say to him, giving voice to his deepest concerns and regrets. Vendrick huffed in grim amusement – of course, it would be within Aldia’s nature to mock him, even after he was no longer here. _“But is that not our very nature, as living beings in this cursed land?”_

He did not answer the ghostly visage of his brother, but Vendrick reached this realization a long time ago, before he even met that wretched fiend—his dear Shandra. In the end, perhaps Vendrick was not a King, but a mere jester.

…

Vendrick left the manor shortly afterwards. No scholars or servants even attempted to follow him through the cold hallways, as he stormed outside and never returned. Too obsessed in their own mockery of research in their attempts to replicate their Lord’s success, the scholars of this Keep were doomed to be locked away, until either their own madness, or the Curse, claimed them.

In the end, Vendrick considers, Aldia had succeeded where he failed, but Vendrick no longer knew whether to mourn or congratulate him and his success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that aldia calls vendrick "dear brother" in a mocking way after he got send away to boomer prison for crimes against humanity 
> 
> todays prompt, "curse", was meant to be about vendrick in the tomb, then changed to gehrman, but then went back to vendrick, so yeah there was a lot of flip-flopping  
> and I was also like, wait, I dont wanna do the aldia reveal yet so I made this some very vague, sleep paralysis demon-type of haunting thats maybe just in vendricks own head 
> 
> also making a dragon acolyte chara was not thing something I foresaw but I liked the idea of some annoying scholar just telling shitty lies to vendrick to cover the fact that aldia turned into a molted tree thing, and vendrick being too agitated trying to find aldia to rly pay attention to them beyond irritation


	26. covenant - annalise, the hunter, bloody crow of cainhurst

For that moonlit-scented hunter to willingly accept her rotten blood, they must be a fool. A fool, but a deadly one - dreg, by dreg, the hunter quickly won over her favor, and the Queen idly wondered what higher forces was at work for her to acquire such a valuable knight.

However, she was not naïve, nor blind enough to believe that the reason for their devotion lied within her and not a different source.

…

It became a sort of dance of death between them – each of them competing to kill more hunters than the other, so that they may outdo each other when presenting their offerings to the Vileblood Queen.

“Hast thou two not considered hunting together, instead of barking at each other like rabid dogs?” The Queen chuckled lightly, her voice a pleasant echo in the cold chamber. The hunter furrowed their brows in confusion, while the Crow’s head tilted slightly to the side. “Well?” She asked again after a long stretch of tense silence between her two knights.

The Crow simply shook their head in denial, while the hunter swallowed. “Neither of us fear the night and what it has to offer. We needn’t hunt together.”

 _Now that is a bold statement_ , the Queen thought, but perhaps not entirely without merit. With the last hunter of hunters, Eileen the old crow, dead – slain by her own prey, the two were free to roam and hunt as they pleased. With the red moon hanging low, and the land swallowed by chaos, it was a night of madness and monsters in which none would stop their little competition.

If they were not following her words still, Annalise would have long considered them lost to bloodlust and savagery.

“It may be so, yet unlike the horrid Church, We never would to see the streets of Yharnam covered in blood,” She answered drily and heard a sharp intake of air from beneath the Crow’s helm. She continued. “Yet, thou art Our valuable knights, and as such We are …concerned for your ardour.”

She paused and watched the sudden tension in the hunter’s shoulders, posed as they were bowing and head lowered in respect. They appeared ready to voice an objection, but perhaps feared of coming off as insolent to their Queen.

“Concerned?” Croaked out the Crow instead, voice raspy from disuse. Annalise huffed – the Crow, talented and refined of a warrior as they were, had grown quite brutish in nature, the further and further they fell down the path of bloodlust.

“Indeed,” She said plainly. “We needn’t remind knights like thou of the reasons why one should'st refrain to thread the night in a vainly manner.”

The Crow remained silent, while the hunter glanced briefly towards them, emanating smugness, upon seeing their competition brought to heel. Behind her cursed, iron helm, the Queen sighed. 

“Forsooth, thou two hast gathered, more than enough gifts for me,” For which, she was indeed very grateful, however, she needn’t be that open about her feelings. Soon enough, she would be able to undo the horrific deed done by the Church, when they stole Cainhurst’s Child of Blood for their bloody ritual, with a new Child of Blood—At least, this she hoped, but a deeper part of her knew that no Great One would bless a Vileblood womb with a child, no matter how many dregs she possessed. “Therefore, for now, We decree thou to preserve thy strength. Rest. The night is yet to end.”

“As you wish.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

With no further argument, the two stood up from their kneeling pose and turned to leave. “If thou would to find a way to relieve the night’s stress building within thou, We are certain that there are other ways as well.” The Queen’s voice echoed in the wide hall as their visages retreated. Perhaps the Crow could satisfy the hunter, just as the hunter could satisfy the Crow, in ways that she could not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annalise: help, our two knights are stuck in a blood sports competition, because they are too horny for each other, and I need to do something before they lose their minds to bloodlust and turn feral 
> 
> tbh the original idea was longer and meant to go with the story that annalise was egging the hunter and the crow against each other so she can get more dregs, but I was like nooo, I want her to be sympathetic :( (at least she is ingame, imo) so ....here we go, wingwoman annalise, rosaria could never


	27. faith - laurence, ludwig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: needles, needle-related injuries

_The road to hell is paved with good intentions._

…

After the burning of Old Yharnam, the Vicar became a more reclusive figure. There was little he could do the ease the tension between Yharnam and the Church – they felt betrayed and angry, and like cornered beasts, they were ready to lash out. Naught, but bloodshed would satisfy them.

However, by some miracle or higher forces at works, things had not devolved into full chaos – the church hunters only reported about the distrust and cold treatment, but it never escalated into physical altercations. As upset as they were, Yharnamites’ dependency on the Church and the blood was too great for them to bite the hand that feeds. And until they still had their favor – they needed to move with their plans.

Laurence blearily opened his eyes and noticed that he was still in his office, behind his desk. He listlessly watched the tiny droplets of blood drip down in the nearby bottle, its long narrow tube attached to the intravenous line inserted into his arm. He felt dizzy and uneasy.

Experimenting with his own blood was a more direct, but needed approach. It allowed him to document his findings in a more private, precise manner, but he feared that its effect was escalating into something detrimental and obscuring. He used a sickening amount of blood – past the point of euphoric pleasure, it turned into a treacherous agony, as he struggled not to lose his wit. It’s warmth alternating between dreadful coldness, or burning his insides. And that’s little saying in regards to how quickly his own physical health.

He sighed and leaned back into his chair. Nights had been long and he had a duty to upkeep and a promise to fulfil. The blood was making him ill – beasthood was likely near, but that did not hinder him. Failure was—Laurence struggled to think about its meaning and what it would bring. The sheer magnitude of it was perhaps, something he had never dared to think about.

However, he was not afraid for his own safety – there were things Laurence feared more than death, but his hope that someone, whether his student or a fledgling scholar, would continue his mission and shatter the shackles of humanity, was a fragile one.

…

Ever since the ritual, whenever he dreamt, he saw Gehrman in the Old Workshop. The scene and setting was very much the same as the night of the ritual, except this time it was Laurence approaching him, instead of Gehrman finding him covered in blood and dazed, staring towards the descending moon.

In here, Gehrman was standing a distance away, in the middle of the small garden on the side of the building. He appeared unchanged – the same graying hair, the same deep frown and the same tattered coat. Laurence recalled the many times he and Gehrman’s hunters wanted to gift him a new one and how stubbornly Gehrman always refused. The old hunter was sitting on an old wheel-chair and appeared to be asleep, his snoring loud and deep. Occasionally he would choke and snort, mumble in his dream.

“Oh, Laurence… what's taking you so long…”

“I am right here, Gehrman.” Laurence promised him. “I would never abandon you, but I need more time!”

However, whenever he opened his mouth to yell and catch his attention, he would chock, lungs burning as he drowned in a sea of blood – he was watching the scene of Gehrman sleeping, as if looking from the depths of clear waters, towards the surface. Something strong, but soft was wrapped around his leg, slowly dragging him towards its murky bottom. He did not dare look back.

When Laurence tried to fight against the pull and reach towards the surface, he saw that his arms were engulfed in flames.

…

“Laurence.”

The bright sun shining between the thick drapery landed exactly on his face and it burned like a brand. He didn’t want to open his eyes – he wished to return to the sweet oblivion he experienced mere moments ago, but the introducer kept demanding for his attention. 

“Laurence.” The voice grew insistent until Laurence finally opened his eyes and noticed that he’d fallen asleep on the floor, leaning against the front of the sofa in his office, surrounded by scattered notes and a few books. Ludwig was kneeling beside him with a very concerned expression on his face.

“Ludwig…” Laurence says wearily and tries to compose himself, recall why Ludwig would be here. _The hunt._ “You’re here early.”

“It’s late. You missed the morning meeting with the hunters,” Laurence almost cursed. He rubbed his eyes from the sleep and peered up towards the clock. It showed that it was nine in the morning, which meant that he was unconscious at least for three hours. His body felt sore. “Laurence,” The church hunter put a hand on his shoulder, its pleasantly warm and steading pressure, as Laurence struggled to shake off the dream and land back in reality. His eyes focused on Ludwig, but he said nothing. In turn, Ludwig hesitated for a moment, before finally asking. “Are you alright?”

Laurence blinks. The question was so simple and so blunt that Laurence was beginning to doubt his own answer, _was he alright?_

“I am fine, Ludwig.” He answers either way.

Laurence groggily lifted himself up on shaky limbs, steading himself on Ludwig’s shoulder, when the latter offered to help. In the reflection of a nearby flask, Laurence saw his own visage and it shocked him. He looked like a wild, feral thing – his hair was tousled, the clothes disheveled and dark circles under red-rimmed eyes.

He quickly paced towards the washbasin in one of the tiny siderooms and splashed cold water on his face. Collects himself, then walks back to his desk and rummages through his notes, attempts to recall what happened the previous night and pick apart the important bits of information. The entire time, Ludwig watches his carefully, cautiously—like a man waiting for a beast to strike.

“Is there anything else?” Despite himself, Laurence’s tone sounds snappy and he winces slightly at the slip up.

“No, there is nothing.” Ludwig shook his head slowly, eyes still studying him. Laurence attempts to avoid the prying gaze by busying himself with his research. He skimmed through handwritten texts that were growing increasingly distressed as its timeline progress and he felt something in his stomach twist – he wrote down frequent updates under the effects of the old blood, but this was disappointingly incomprehensible and the more he tried to find a collection, the more he felt like he was trying to grasp water. He couldn’t do it.

“Laurence.” Ludwig called for him again and Laurence blinks, focused back on the man, whom was not standing right beside him behind the desk. With a serious expression, the church hunter reached out towards him and grabbed him by the wrist, in a firm, but gentle manner, and held it in place, rolled up the sleeve with his other hand.

Ludwig says nothing, but the look he gave Laurence is accusatory enough – the pale skin of his forearm contrasted against the spots darkened by bruises and puncture wounds from needles and blood transfusions, and scared by rough cuts. It was an ugly sight and normally someone with Laurence’s expertise would never make so many mistakes, but his work grew sloppy whenever the blood overstimulated his brain and his vision doubled.

Laurence sighs. “I am at the forefront of a great breakthrough. Sometimes, sacrifices are needed.”

He bit his lower lip and immediately regretted the fact that he’d forgotten to cover his wrists with bandages to hide the injuries. The sleeve of his robe kept most of it covered, but it was not easy to miss by someone with keen eyes, such as Ludwig.

Still as he was, Ludwig rolled up his sleeve further and winced when he saw the damage. It was so severe that some of the skin was peeling off, revealing red scabs. Ludwig gently rubbed a thumb over the base of his hand, giving him a pitying look. Pain flared, but not enough to break Laurence’s composure.

“Since how long?”

“At least since Gehrman—” Laurence paused and considered, quickly corrected himself. “Since Old Yharnam burned.”

“I see.”

“It was not as severe as recently however,” Laurence confessed. “Lately, I’ve gotten …inspired, and I didn’t wish to endanger anyone else.” In truth, it was more so out of convenience, rather than concern for others. As devout as some people were, ever since Old Yharnam, who would even agree to experiment like this? Even just dealing with the Choir was enough for the topic to devolve into arguments. 

“Laurence, you need to rest. Not in this room.” Ludwig said, tone firm. “But proper sleep. In a bed.”

Laurence answered with a sheepish smile. “I will.” He answered and added. “Soon.”

Ludwig frowned.

“Get it together.” Ludwig pulled his hand and Laurence’s eyes widened as his body gave to the pull and he hunched forward slightly. The momentary shock that Ludwig actually dared to touch him like that quickly passed and a relieved smile settled on his face.

“Yes.” He said quietly and inhaled. “You’re right.” Ludwig squeezed his hand lightly, and Laurence closed his eyes for a brief moment. He allowed himself to indulge in the rare sensation of the anchoring presence of another human—he was not alone. In fact, it was not simply that he was not alone – so much rested on him, that to crack under the pressure and give in to weakness was incomprehensible. _Unforgivable._

 _Evolution without courage will be the ruin of our race._ And he was willing to make whatever steps were necessary to achieve it – he felt a burning determination swell inside his chest.

“You’re right,” He repeats and now Ludwig smiles as well, upon seeing the familiar, resolved manner the Laurence carried himself with. “I am sorry. I feel much better now.”

“Good that is good to hear,” Ludwig’s expression froze for a brief moment, perhaps finally realizing that what he’d done and that he was holding _the Vicar’s_ hand so casually. He promptly released him and looked away. Neither sides decided to bring it up. “I’m glad you feel better,” Ludwig coughs, while Laurence fixed his sleeve. “If you ever need anyone—our relationship needn’t be purely professional. I am here to aid you as a friend, as well.”

Despite his shy, clumsy proposal for friendship, Laurence smiles and nods.

“Thank you, Ludwig.” Still feeling raw and vulnerable, Laurence exhaled as he said. “Thank you for putting your faith in me. I don’t know, where I would be without you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy,  
> also, he became a giant deerman dog, like a week later, gg
> 
> mommy kos and milf presence holding hands together and giving laurence nightmares
> 
> anyway! woah, day 27, huh-- todays theme was "faith" so, a story about the vicar's final days. pepocrushed, this was meant to be longer and deeper, Im a failure of a laurence simp--  
> also, my shipper brain was resisting the urge to add wrist kissing, teehee---


	28. strenght - imposter iosefka, the hunter

‘Iosefka’ was not her true name, but she had grown quite attuned to this role as a caretaker.

...

The Healing Church is the fountainhead of blood ministration. The Church controls all knowledge on the old blood, its varieties, its use and its potential. To the citizens of Yharnam, ignorant as they were, the blood was a means of healing and carnal relief, but to the enlightened few, the blood was a means of research, for it did not heal people, and instead it transformed them.

To have this strength was intoxicating, but it was also an immense responsibility. These brave scholars were to be stalwart steward to mankind reaching Greatness. Their methods were not sick or cruel, but a necessary evil, so that humanity might change—hopefully into something Greater, the imposter thought, and otherwise— _Well, that’s what the hunters are for._

She heard a familiar knock and immediately, rushed past the bumbling, incomplete emissary— _the real Iosefka_ , and stood behind the door. 

“Yes?” She called to them, tone eager to find what latest treat did the hunter bring for her. “Have you found others who need my care?”

“None.” The hunter said, tone flat. “Have you not seen the moon outside?”

“No? I—I was busy with the last patient you’ve send me.” The imposter furrowed her brows in confusion. The hunter didn’t answer, but behind the stained glass, she could still see that they were still there. It was a silent gesture, telling her to go and see for herself.

Which she promptly did, although they were off to a bad start, she had grown quite fond and trusting of the hunter—her fellow, in a way.

She walked towards the nearest window—a different, failed emissary was sulking in front of the neighboring mirror, completely oblivious to the ongoings outside. When the imposter unveiled the curtains hiding the dusty windows, her eyes widened when she peered towards the skies.

Large and red and— _beautiful_. The blood moon. It was just like—just like her childhood memory of when Old Yharnam burned. She took a step back and gasped as she bummed into the hunter’s front. They grabbed her shoulders firmly, but in a supporting manner, preventing her from collapsing on the ground from her shock. 

“Ahah…hah.” Her voice was shaky and she swallowed, trying to calm herself. Closed her eyes, but the red moon was still there. It took many years to remove the image of that night, yet here it was again, all the same – at least this time she knew what to do. “Thank you, dear hunter. For being here with me.”

The hunter said nothing and simply nodded. They released her and the imposter stood on her own, but they could see that she was still shivering lightly.

“How goes the research?”

“Ah, you wish to see how the treatment is going?” The imposter gave them a surprised look, but quickly recovered. “It is going …well. Even the half-man, half-beast managed to reach some semblance of enlightenment,” She smiled and saw that there was a small glint of pleased surprise in the hunter’s cold eyes. “Would you like to see?”

They nodded again, and she led them upstairs.

“Blood is a precious resource for someone like me,” She explained as they walked. “Despite the appearance, I am a lone researcher now.”

“What happened?”

“The Church, nor the Choir would accept the methods and I—I had no choice.” She confessed, suddenly feeling a weight lifted off her soldiers. The hunter stood behind her, unjudging.

“There are other madmen out there,” They huffed in amusement and the imposter shot them a disappointed look. “Have you never thought about joining them?”

“I have considered…but in the end, I am a doctor, not a butcher.”

She unlocked the door to her office—her _stage_ , and let them in. Inside the smell of blood was overwhelming – the place had grown in disarray, with broken flasks and scattered documents thrown around on the floor. The gurney was filthy, with its white sheets covered in blood stains and other, unknown fluids.

“Well here it is,” She made a shaky breath. “Make yourself at home, dear hunter.” She chuckled and went to the nearby cabinet, when the hunter pulled out a blood vial. Perhaps, she considered, a treat was in order – using two clean flasks as cups, she poured half of it for herself and the other half for the hunter and gave them the flask. The glasses clinked and each side bought it to their lips.

“Cheers…to our newfound kindship.” She drank it whole, welcoming the pleasant warmth it filled her with.

Then the next moment, her empty flask shattered as it fell on the ground and the imposter stared at it with muted surprise – her hand felt numb, her head dizzy. It was as if she was staring at herself from another person’s point of view. The familiar effects of the healing blood felt more intense—as if she was drowning in it, rather than only dipping her bare feet at its shore.

“I’m sorry, I—” She took a step back, ignoring the stinging sensation of shattered glass digging into her bare feet and leaned against the counter. She felt light-headed. Her cheeks flushed a deep red and she breathed heavily. “I am indeed…thankful for your companionship. Without you—I….” She blurted out and the hunter’s brow rose. The imposter touched the side of her neck and felt her quick pulse.

“It is difficult,” She inhaled and exhaled deeply. “To find like-minded people…Those—not afraid to seek the truth and rid themselves of this—beastly stupidity.” The hunter made no effort to ease her distress and instead remained still, almost casual, as they watched her.

She smiled, almost laughed. “There is no worth in—living like this.” The imposter then groaned and closed her eyes as she felt the raw pain of something intrusive crawling at the back of her head and force itself deeper into her mind—as if her brain was penetrated by a beam.

The imposter wanted to scream—perhaps she did.

She opened her eyes and noticed that the hunter was holding her now. Their arms wrapped lightly around her back and they rocked her gently, calming her as if one would calm cattle before slaughter. Despite herself, the faker eased into the embrace – there was the stinging sensation of _something_ at the back of her neck and she felt the chill of the sedative enter her bloodstream.

“Brave…hunter…?” She mumbled as she fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omfg I had to write the notes at the end like 3 times due to bad internet trolling, Im exhausted ...
> 
> anyway  
> \- todays theme is strength, so its more about the strength of responsibility of bb scholars...crackheads specialists  
> \- ok, so just wanted to say that all the hunters Ive written so far, arent all the same hunter and more like, different interpretation. todays a more sinister take where the hunter cooperated with the imposter for their own goals - namely, to get some sweet, tasty cords ...theyre an opportunist


	29. old - micolash, laurence, master willem

Micolash’s eyes rapidly darted between Master Willem sitting behind his wide desk and Laurence standing beside him.

The air in Master Willem’s office had always been musty, with the scent of old books and paper, but now it was suffocatingly stale. He had half the mind to request for one of them to open the window, but based on the tense silence in the room, he figured it would be in poor taste. Instead, he put a fist in front of his mouth and coughed, to clear his throat. Laurence’s eyes shifted towards him briefly, before turning back to stare listlessly at the provost’s desk.

Laurence’s expression was blank, but if Micolash had to guess, he could see that he more than anything he looked quite _bored_ for being called here.

Master Willem’s customary frown deepened.

“I am certain that both of you have heard by now, but a ritual chalice has gone missing.”

“Is that so?” Micolash blinked. This _was_ news to him – apparently he’d been out of the loop.

“Indeed,” Laurence said plainly. “I’ve heard the other students gossip about it during lunch.”

In sharp contrast, Laurence appeared completely unbothered by the news – the student sat down on one of the armchairs in front of Master Willem’s desk and folded his legs, smoothed out a wrinkle on his pant uniform.

Micolash remained standing, shoulders slumped and hands in his pocket. He didn’t know why he was called here, when the more and more Micolash’s gaze lingered on Laurence - it was quite obvious who the culprit is.

“I’ve asked all others and they were innocent,” Master Willem said tersely. “You two are the only ones left.” Gone was the playfully condescending manner in which Master Willem spoke in order to provoke them. Instead, their old teacher appeared quite serious and understandably, vexed.

“I was with my colleagues at the school’s laboratory the entire time. They can testify for me, should you ask them,” Laurence said coolly and then turned his head, looking up to Micolash with an unreadable expression. “Meanwhile, where were you, Micolash?”

In truth, Micolash spend the whole day cleaning his room, so that he doesn’t cross the dorm master again. Someone had broken in his room and made a mess of it, no doubt it was some jealous competitor trying to—

Realization quickly downed on Micolash. The dirty boots, the sleeping students and trying to keep him occupied enough, so that he was not with others—Did Laurence intend to _frame_ him? The thought was so abhorrent, that it took all of his self-control not to laugh.

“Micolash?” Master Willem called and he blinked, immediately returning to the presence. His expression convulsed into an ugly grimace. _Oh, Kos…_

“Wasn’t me,” He said hastily. “If you were to ask my roomies and the dorm master, you would know that I was in the dorms the entire night. Coincidentally, I accidentally broke a window and had to report it.” Micolash saw Laurence’s lips twitch briefly— perhaps the barest of acknowledgment he was willing to give his fellow scholar for his wit.

A part of him yearned for a verbal fight—to see how far Laurence was willing to spin a web of lies in attempts to keep the blame away from himself. No doubt, with the way other students fawned over him, Laurence would have no problems getting someone to lie for his alibi. Perhaps, Micolash realized, starting with excuses and attempting to shift the accusation onto Laurence, might look like a guilty man running, but—

“I believe you, Micolash.” Master Willem said.

“Oh,” The tension fell off Micolash’s shoulders. It appeared that Master Willem, in a rare showcase of wise judgement, decided to pursue the culprit from the very start instead of playing cat and mouse. “Oh!” _How would Laurence get out of this now?_

Master Willem exhaled sharply and his hawk-like gaze focused on Laurence.

"Laurence, where is it?" The air in the room stilled, the tension between the two was so thick, that even Micolash could scoop it up in a glass.

"I didn’t steal it, nor is it in my possession," Laurence answered simply, tone even and expression betraying nothing. Meanwhile, Master Willem’s grip on his cane was so harsh, his knuckles had gone white. “If you wish, you can check all of my possessions. I am willing to cooperate in whatever way is necessary, until the culprit is found.”

He offered with a smile, tone cordial – it was arrogance, plain and simple arrogance, because he knew that even if Master Willem was aware that he was the culprit, he would never find evidence, nor was he going to act out on his doubts without a solid confirmation. Laurence could get away with lying to Master Willem, because Master Willem trusts him. Well, _trusted_ him, Micolash now considers judging by the way the old man was gripping his cane.

Deep down, Master Willem saw a grain of himself within his student – the same, earnest pursuit of the truth, however with the same eyes, Master Willem saw his own failures as well. Mainly, his failure to satisfy Laurence’s obsessive curiosity and hunger for knowledge. And like a parent who failed their own child, Master Willem did not have the heart to resent him and his deeds. Instead, there was just bitter disappointed in himself and his student.

“I expected more from you.”

A sudden, deep chill filled the room as Laurence’s haughty disposition cracked to reveal a cornered animal. He swallowed hard, somehow still maintaining an impassive expression, but Micolash could see that there was something dark in his eyes.

“If you were so certain that I am the culprit, then why did you investigate further instead of calling me from the start? Why did you call Micolash here with me?” Upon hearing his name, Micolash suddenly remembered that he was more than a fly on the wall. He blinked, but the other two didn’t seem to put any serious regard to his presence in the room. “Was it just to humiliate me?” His fists clenched and he inhaled, suddenly remembering to breathe. Despite the bitterness underlying his words, his tone contained a calm timbre in an attempt to put up a front of respectful defiance.

“What you are doing is dangerous, Laurence,” Master Willem ignored his words completely and instead warned him. “You are still too young and naïve, incapable of understanding the full consequences of your actions.”

Upon hearing that, Laurence’s lips curled upwards into a faint sardonic smile. “And you were when it came to dealing with the whole horrid affair concerning the Fishing Hamlet?” He jabbed back drily.

The tension in the room was suddenly _electric_ – Micolash could see sparks between the two. He half-expected one of them to combust in fire.

“Out! Both of you get out!” Willem grumbled at them, waving and gesturing with his cane towards the door. “We’re done here.”

Once outside the office and out in the hallways, Laurence exhaled deeply and Micolash watched his fists clench and unclench. He turned to leave in the opposite direction, but Micolash tiptoed after him. He shadowed behind Laurence in the empty corridors, barely keeping up with the latter’s pace.

“Where did you put it, Laurence?” Micolash couldn’t resist the temptation of gloating. “Where is the chalice?”

“That’s not your concern.” He answered coldly, making no effort to slow his pace. Micolash huffed.

“If Master Willem were to find proof, then it’s not just a question whether you’d get expelled, you know?” He said, grin practically carved into his face. “After all, in the past students who broke the rules, have mysteriously disappeared in the dungeons.”

“Again. Not your concern.” Laurence’s tone grew sharper, but otherwise his face remained a calm and composed.

“Oh,” Micolash blinked, having reached a certain realization. “You intend to venture deeper inside, either way? So that’s what the chalice is for…”

Laurence’s lips curled in the tiniest of smiles. “Yes.”

Upon hearing his confirmation, Micolash increased his pace, practically ran in front of him, so that he could physically prevent him from running away. Laurence glared back at him, but stopped, instead of just pushing past him.

“Master Willem is…incapable of seeing how faulty his moderate approach is.” He said after a tense moment of silence with a dejected tone. Micolash nodded slowly. “If we were to continue following his footsteps, then outside of hypothesis, we will never grasp greatness.”

“And you believe yourself capable?”

“Yes.” He answered bluntly, as if Micolash was foolish for asking such a thing.

“Perhaps, you are right,” Micolash answered honestly and reached out. Laurence stilled and his eyes narrowed, as the fellow scholar touched the edge of his cloak, fixing and flattening it from its disheveled state caused by the half-walk, half-run through the halls. “It’s quite a burden to carry and I’m certain that you are aware of the consequences.” He needn’t say anything more – after all, he was not his keeper, nor would he ever want to be. Perhaps, his observer – that was the role Micolash opted to be when it came to dealing with Laurence.

Laurence nodded and brushed Micolash’s hands off himself. “If you’ve finished satisfying your curiosity for gossip, then I would like to be left alone.”

“Oh, I am quite done, indeed,” Micolash chuckled. “I quite look forward to your future results.” He waved his hand above his head as a farewell, as he walked past him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was information one of the chalices, I think, forgot which and it said that one of the chalices got stolen from byrgenwerth....naturally, I assumed its laurence and its how he discovered the old blood
> 
> anyway, mico during the entire willem and laurence dad-son verbal spat: bro...I am just...I am just standing here  
> \+ laurence was channeling hannibal lecter vibes from s2 at the start and the vibes were absolutely atrocious


	30. royalty - anri, ashen one, yuria, liliane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> about that issue of consent...

For the longest time there was only nothing. Then, awareness slowly came to their senses – they felt a numbing coldness, smelled the scent of incense in the air and saw nothing, but darkness. Struggling to stand up, they felt their body sore and aching, as if they were chewed and spat out by a wild beast. Might as well have been considering their memories were still patchy and hazy. There was a church, a distressed pilgrim, followed by a sharp pain— and then only blackness.

Where they alive, or where they dead? Anri of Astora struggled to find an answer to that.

With a groan, they managed to sit up, and an intricate cloth fell from their head. They were almost startled to find out where they were - _Anor Londo_ —more specifically, an unidentified crypt.

“Ah, thou art awake now, my Lord’s dear consort.” Above them stood a woman wearing a dark dress. Her face was hidden by a silvery helmet. Anri gave the woman a confused look, as if she were talking to someone else, despite the fact that it was just them in the hall. “Anri of Astora.”

They swallowed hard and pushed themselves up to a standing position.

“That’s me.” They answered, tone nervous. “Who are you? Why am I _here_?”

“I am Liliane of Londor,” She bowed courteously, her head dipped low and her dark dress moving in an elegant manner as she moved. “My sincerest apologies for not arriving sooner to take care of thine ceremony personally.”

 _Ceremony_ —Anri suddenly recalled her calling them _my Lord’s dear consort_ , and felt a lump of dread in their throat.

“I think there is a misunderstanding.” They argued, tone uneven, and took a step back, but Liliane countered by moving forward.

“There is no such thing, my Lord,” Her tone edged on something dangerous and Anri grew alert. “It has been far too long since events unfolded this favorably. We will not lose our opportunity!” She demanded. Anri swallowed nervously again.

Unfortunately, they were without their precious sword, so for now they considered that perhaps the best course of action was to play along to this strange woman’s whims.

…

In truth, they did not know what their expectations about the Kiln of the First Flame were, but somehow the sight of it did not surprise them – an ashen wasteland of warrior remains and amongst it was that familiar Unkindled they saw so many times on their travels. Anri did feel a small, comforting warmth in their chest upon seeing their familiar visage, but when they rose, and the crowd gathered around moved in accordance to them, Anri felt the same, now intimate dread of unknown events unfolding again.

Horace, they recalled, was always better at dealing with these sort of developments, and Anri no longer knew whether they could trust the Ashen one, even if they were someone, whom they still considered a friend and comrade.

…

Londor, for the most part, was not as terrifying as they imagined. They were kept in their Lord’s castle as if in a gilded cage, but it was not hard, even from the high towers to see the gradual change to the land – the long, cold nights, yet the lively clamor of figures on the streets below could be heard even from up here. Whoever these humans—these Hollows were, they were still celebrating at being liberated by the shackles of the Gods.

Were the Ashen one’s deeds truly so horrible for them to be the cause of such celebrations? Anri of Astora, still did not know the answer to that question. Perhaps, it was not a decision they could make any more. They were no longer a warrior of justice, having lost their world, nor could they fight for revenge – the target of their vengeance was a Lord of Cinder, and he was killed by their _spouse_.

Anri shivered. The title still did not sit well with them. The two hadn’t met each other in privacy, ever since the ceremony at the Kiln and Anri felt as if they were in a state of uneasy peace – stuck between waiting for the Ashen one’s verdict and their own existential crisis.

Liliane often visited them – usually to assess their condition, and attend to them with whatever they wished, but her words were always unsatisfyingly vague.

“I want to leave. I want out.” They said once, attempting to take a firm stance, but without even bearing her weapon, Liliane dismantled their showcase of courage.

“My dear sister, claims that you are not yet ready to face the world.” She said, tone soft – as if trying to calm a particularly problematic child and Anri exhaled.

“Where’s the Ashen one?” They asked instantly and felt like Liliane was about to shatter with from restraining her anger upon hearing the disrespectful way they referred to their Lord.

…

They did come eventually and by the quiet, silent way they approached them, Anri realized that the situation was no less awkward for them as it was for Anri. The Ashen one was staying at the edges of the room, looking very much liked a frightened wild animal, trying to find a way to break out of its cage. After a long stretch of stillness, Anri supposed if they did not break the silence, what this age was would come and go by the time they talked.

“Ah, hello, we meet again. Did, you perhaps…find Horace in the end?”

“I did.” The Ashen one inhaled sharply. “I encountered him as a mad Hollow in the catacombs, and I killed him.”

“Oh…”

Anri lowered their head. Deep down, they knew the fact that Horace was gone forever, ever since they left those dreaded catacombs, but to hear their worst fears confirmed—they felt a numb ache at the back of their head.

“I’m sorry.” The Ashen one said quietly. 

“No, its…” Anri inhaled, holding back the tears. “Thank you, for giving him one final peace, Ashen one,” They remained silent. "Oh, right. You're a Lord now, I should show my respect." There was a nervous chuckle behind the helmet.

The Ashen one—no, the _Lord of Hollows_ drew closer and Anri was surprised to find that themselves not flinching away. They still thought of them like they were their friend and for them to appear this casual, despite everything, Anri felt a nostalgic familiarity in this strange, unknown world. They did not know what the Ashen one did to themselves, but they appeared mostly unchanged – the same armor, same weapon, but their presence felt different. It was darker and hazier now—like a mist or a shadow.

“You were forced into this, and it is another thing I must apologize for.” They went down on one knee in front of Anri and bowed in apology and Anri got flustered, waving their hands around and gesturing, that they needn’t.

“I am—I am quite alright with this. Better than being dead in some abandoned cavern.” Anri confessed. “But I need more time with getting used to…this,” Dying was one thing – they expected it either as a failure in the course of their journey, or a release from this wretched world at the end of, but marriage on the other hand—The Ashen one looked up and gave them a studying look. “This—I don’t want you to misunderstand! I find you quite fancy, but—” They stuttered and shrugged nervously. “I just didn’t expect for this arrangement in our …relationship.”

The Ashen one’s head tilted slightly, almost appearing as if thinking.

“We may have been forced to be together, but we needn’t act upon it.” They finally said and Anri stared back them. “I would never coerce you into anything you wouldn’t want—” Now they stuttered, and Anri would have found their own nervousness cute, if it the subject wasn’t the two of them forced into something as profound as marriage. “So keeping the marriage as merely a formal arrangement, is fine by me.”

Their tone quickly turned diplomatic and Anri idly wondered whether this was a quality they had to adopt as a Lord of Hollows.

“Yeah, you’re right…” Anri answered in the end, feeling a sense of elation.

…

Anri didn’t know it was possible for someone to look angry from behind a mask, but Yuria of Londor appeared absolutely fuming.

“Prithee, my Lord, but why art thee not with your dearest?”

“My dearest has been very busy being a Lord of this land.” They answered flatly. It was only half a lie – it was true that they hadn’t met with the Ashen one since their conversation, and Anri was fine with that.

Yuria folded her arms, clearly displeased. “If our dear Lords do not stay together, then what are thine subjects to assume?”

“…”

“Thee hast not even lain together yet, hast thee?” Anri immediately flushed deeply at the question. They were thankful that their old helmet was keeping their face hidden. “Well?” She demanded.

“Well—no.” They said flatly and Yuria scoffed. “Let’s say that we’ve been…bonding.”

“Bonding?”

“We are both warriors and strangers to this land, quite unused to this land’s customs, so we need more time to get accustomed to its traditions.” They span the lie, but could see that Yuria would not buy it, so they diverted. “Furthermore, we are still yet to grow comfortable and secure into each other’s private presence.”

“Ah, hah!” Yuria laughed, perhaps attempting to appear amused, but her tone was low and mocking. “Was romance thine expectations?” Anri did not say anything in answer. “Listen, Anri of Astora, our Lord and Liege fought honorably for the sake of Londor and fulfilled their obligations beyond our wildest hopes. For that, we owe Them our eternal gratitude and devotion. Although, I admit, that I would not consider thee the best pick, unfortunately, we were faced with a limited selection of possible suitors,” Anri’s brows furrowed in confusion. Yuria continued. “Therefore, just as our Lord carried out Their duties, we expect you to carry out yours.”

Half-way in the middle of monologue, Anri noticed that whenever she spoke about the Ashen one her tone was dripping with fondness and a devotion that goes past the boundary between servant and master—Was she jealous?

“Yuria.” The voice of their Lord—the Ashen one boomed from behind them in the large hallway and Anri felt immense relief. Surely, they would fulfil their promise. “Leave them be and don’t disturb them.”

“Yes, of course, my Lord.” The change in Yuria’s tone and demeanor was immediate. She bowed deeply, even more graceful than her sister’s. “I deeply, deeply apologize for my transgression, and I promise I will disturb Lord Anri no more.” She promised, speaking in reverence towards her Lord.

“Good.” They said and gave Anri a brief look before stalking away to—whatever the Lord of Hollow was supposed to do. Anri mentally thanked them for their intervention.

Yuria straightened her back, and without saying or even acknowledging Anri, she walked away. Perhaps, Anri considered, this _being in a forced married with the Lord of Hollows_ would not be so bad?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :o second to last day ... almost free...!
> 
> \--jk jk, anyway todays prompt was royalty, so a story about anri and some minor londor drama, set after the lord of hollows ending of ds3
> 
> my guilty pleasure is some weird love triangle betwene ashen one, yuria cucking herself and anri just trying to get by, lolol, but also like--trying to play a bit with the whole arranged marriage ordeal 
> 
> I like to imagine liliane as the cute, youngest try-hard sister


	31. hollow - bearer of the curse, aldia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the honors for the closing act go to aldia

“What do you want, truly?” Aldia asked them, and they made their decision without hesitation - _To break his cycle._

…

The path ahead was cold and dark. Their eyes had adjusted to the blackness, but the narrow road went on and on, forever unending. Trapped perhaps, they considered – their only hope of escape was to find the familiar summoning runes and ask for help, but for now they just wandered with a newfound clarity in their head, but also a growing sense of uneasiness over what they’ve done.

They refused to accept the Throne and continue the cycle, and instead agreed with the scholar’s proposal of finding a third option. However, it was no easy route to take – greater men than them, a mere _‘Young Hollow’,_ have tried and failed. But—then again, they’ve bested each and every one of them, have they not?

And they were not alone – although now silent, the Bearer of the Curse could faintly feel Aldia’s presence nearby, suspended like a shadow over ash. Despite defeating the scholar in battle in what should have been a deathblow, he looked pretty alive and almost _chipper_ to witness the Bearer’s answer.

“Aldia.” They called, voice faintly uncertain whether the scholar was _actually present_ , or just drifting between whatever state of existence he found himself in.

“Hmm?” An amalgamation of voices rumbled from somewhere above them and the Bearer stopped their march.

“Just making sure you’re still there,” They answered casually, lips curling into a slight smile.

“Oh, wherever would I be, my Young _Apprentice_ ,” There was an amused chuckle, one of the voices pitched higher into a screech. “As we are now, we are quite alike in circumstances.”

The Bearer squinted their eyes in confusion, “Namely?”

“Someone who escaped the curse,” Aldia said levelly. “But also someone, who has lost everything.”

The Bearer inhaled sharply. “There was not much left to lose,” They answered quietly. There was one thing – no doubt the Emerald Herald— Shanalotte would be upset by them. Maybe even come to hate them, but would she feel as betrayed as they felt, when they learnt where she was guiding them towards? Or would she just seek another Undead to groom towards taking the Throne of Want? They suspected that she would be sourly disappointed. They travelled the land and saw what it was worth for – it would be a long time, before another warrior capable of bearing the burden came. A bearer of many curses. “It was either burning or the curse.” They shrugged simply – unlike Vendrick, they at least had the blessed crowns.

Would the others also fault their decision—what would they think of it? Would the old women gossip in envy about the path they’ve taken? Would the blacksmith even notice that they were gone? Would Rosabeth look for them? Would Shalquoir also be upset like the Herald? Surely, Cale would be able to tell on that map of his what became of their journey. The Bearer had little doubt that the old hag would miss their patronage. Would Maughlin miss it as well, or would he forget, because of the curse? Navlaan was likely going to peacefully rot away, now that his inner demon was subdued. And then they were the others—Felkin, Chloanne, Benhart, Creighton, Straids, McDuff…

In the end, were they...no different than Vendrick for choosing neither options?

_Seek strength. The rest will follow…_

“You worry so much, I can almost hear you think,” Aldia’s voices boomed from underneath them now, and for a split moment they feared that a body of lava and molten trees would erupt from beneath them. Small as the path was, they would surely be pushed off and fall into the darkness. “Speak your mind.”

The Bearer sighed solemnly, tried to ease themselves. “Has the loneliness ever bothered you?”

“Hmm…” Aldia considers and while he thinks, the Bearer rummages through their belongings, tries to find a flame butterfly to ignite a torch with, only to bitterly find that they had neither butterflies or torches left. “I have not felt desperate for a companion, but to find camaraderie is a …rare and welcomed gift.”

“So yes.” The bearer teased. A deep sigh shook underneath them—almost as if Aldia was the ground itself.

“Perhaps,” Aldia huffed. “All men seek fellowship in some form or another,” One of the torches next to them suddenly lit and the Bearer brought up their hand to shield their sensitive eyes, grown so accustomed the dark, from the tiny flames. “Look towards the flame.”

They did and saw countless little flames rise and fall, lost to the darkness and the cold wind. “You could’ve done this sooner.” They commented drily, eyes not leaving the comforting light.

“We are headed towards the unknown,” Aldia says, ignoring the comment. “Not even I can predict what will happen.”

“But its the right choice?” The Bearer’s words sound more like a question, than a statement.

“Yes,” He answers with such conviction that the air practically crinkles with the force of his voice. “Men need no longer be shackled by falsehoods. Countless—sacrificed to this _Age of Rot_ , forced onto us by the Lord of Light and his servants. Fighting, dying, burning—and most important of all, _forgetting_. Victims by the curse and circumstances – regardless, the Hollows are resilient, but just how much longer would this falsehood continue?”

The Bearer just shrugged. “I am just one person. I cannot influence how others think.”

“That may be true, Brave Hollow.” Aldia says and pauses. “Yet you conquered immense trials, prevailed through powerful adversaries. What recognition to the throne does one have, if not by the adversaries they’ve felled?”

 _One drowned in poison, another succumbed to flame. Still another slumbers in a realm of ice_ —and Vendrick’s own kingdom of ruin.

The Bearer pulled out the four blessed crowns. They lied them out neatly upon a tattered cloth on the ground and then knelt in front of them. 

“I can see why Vendrick saw a successor in you,” Aldia continued. “Merits of power.”

 _Vendrick._ Vendrick had given them a cure, but not a solution – it would cure their own Hollowness—save them from the grim end of burning to the flame, or their mind sinking in oblivion, but it would not make a change. Not a long-lasting one at least.

They clutched one of the crowns—the one of the Sunken King, and tossed it over the edge of the cliff. The crown dropped down the darkness, its gems glittering from the pale light coming from the torch, before sinking in oblivion.   
“Throw them away?” The ground shook a bit as Aldia chuckled. “Why not save them for your—peers?”

“Four Crowns. Four Great Souls. Four Lord’s Souls—it would have just created the same problem.”

 _As if repeating the actions of Lord Gwyn himself._ They needn’t pick subjects – they were not a King to lead, sacrifice and be forgotten like the kings, whose crowns they now had. Instead they would fade away quietly, searching and perhaps failing to find an answer. An alternative—was it selfish to do? Or was this their reward for their journey? The original goal to come to Drangleic was long lost and it was something they could not blame the Hollowing for. 

“What is wrong, my friend?” Aldia called them and the Bearer felt as if struck. Next they grabbed the one belonging to the Old Iron King—the mad king consumed by greed and flame and iron—and tossed it down the abyss as well.

When they hand reached for the next one, they hesitated. The Burnt Ivory King was a good king and a noble man – he protected his kingdom with love and in earnest. His sacrifice caused its downfall, yet he somehow still prevailed. Burned, corrupted and ruined, he pressed on until he drew his last breath. It was someone, whom the Bearer did not wish to fight, but the King’s beloved Child of Dark, Alsanna, asked them to give him the mercy of death and they agreed.

They inhaled sharply, the air around them suddenly icy—colder than Alsanna’s last stand protecting Eleum Loyce with the frost—and threw the delicate crown into the abyss as well. 

“That was Vendrick’s gift to you,” Aldia finally said, when the Bearer grabbed the King’s Crown— _Vendrick’s crown_. “Without it, surely you will Hollow.”

The Bearer shrugged. “He did not give me a solution.”

“Correct.”

“He gave me a cure—” They said, their grip of the crown growing looser. “You also did not find a solution.”

“But I came close,” Aldia immediately answered and the Bearer did not miss the undertones of pettiness in his tone. “I _did_ find a cure.”

“Not a feasible one.” Idly, they wondered whether Aldia could just create a new body. Maybe he was in the process of making one – it wouldn’t too be hard and the Kiln was close.

_I am Aldia. I sought to shed the yoke of fate, but failed. Now, I only await an answer._

The Throne. The fire. The bonfires. The Bearer swallowed. “Your Keep…you were experimenting with remains and attempted to forsake your humanity…You transfused yourself onto the First Flame.”

The scholar remained silent.

Aldia’s voice, _an amalgamation of voices_ – all past victims of the fire, they’ve all become one with him. It was only natural, the Bearer thinks, that someone with a fate such as Aldia could understand the Undead’s plight so intimately.

 _I lost everything, and yet I remained here, patiently_ —did he attempt the same thing as Nashandra attempted to?

“How did you _really_ end up in here?” The Bearer barks towards the darkness.

“I failed.” Aldia says, tone quiet, so low that it felt like a whisper in their ear. Solemn.

Suddenly, the Bearer pitied the man like none other, when their mind pieced together the puzzle – in his attempts to break the cycle of life and death—to go beyond the reaches of Dark and Light, he attempted to usurp the source of this land’s ruin—the Flame, but Aldia failed in some sense, and now he became an aspect of it.

To fight him in that cursed chamber, was to just fulfil his part in fate.

“You’ve become a part of the cycle, rather than escaping it. The cycle is you, so when this age ends, so will you.”

“I’ve lived a while,” Aldia only says and the Bearer considers, puts away the last crown. “As I’ve mentioned - I failed, and perhaps this is just punishment for my own failures. This form…” The sky now shook, as if thundering while he laughed. “Not that I particularly mind it. This form has allowed me much and it has allowed me to find a compatriot.”

“A ‘rare and welcomed gift’?” The Bearer echoed the sentiment from earlier and couldn’t help to huff in amusement as well.

Regardless, to willfully chain himself to something he loathes so much—spoke volumes about Aldia’s devotion. They’ve yet much to learn from him—from both him and Vendrick, for the two brother had found their answers in their search for the truth in some way or another.

_Beyond the scope of light, beyond the reach of dark…what could possibly await us?_

_Inherit fire and harness the dark…Such is the calling of a true leader._

One day, the Bearer thinks, humans will rule a world of darkness and forge their own destiny, without fire. They would restore their birthright—and with it, their humanity.

…

_“What, still here? Hand it over. That thing, your dark soul. For my lady's painting.”_

…At the end of all ages, amidst the ruins of long-lost civilizations, two of humanity’s last contenders, an Unkindled and a Hollow, spill each other’s blood to decide the fate of the dark soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ds2: stofs credits theme starts playing*—or maybe the ringed city ending credits cos we dipped into that
> 
> and the final day! the last prompt was "hollow" ...so of course, a story with aldia and the bearer of the curse - the bearer's weird existential crisis and their molten rock-tree friend  
> a small disclaimer that I dont feel super strongly about the theory that aldia ended up ...the way he did, because he tried to separate/overtake the flame, but it botched and he ended up merging himself with it BY ACCIDENT, because the logistics are kind of a nightmare, but I wrote it for the d r a m a  
> me, listing dark souls 2 npcs and going, yeah I forgot who dies or goes mad at the end of the questline, hope these work
> 
> also me, wondering whether vendrick shud be added to the ch list cos hes pretty important too, LOL

**Author's Note:**

> Well—this marks the end to soulstober for me and it has been An Experience. not gonna lie, there were a few days where the struggle was real, but in general it was a pretty fun experience, creating but also trying to fit within the deadline since I challenged myself to post once a day, 
> 
> I got to write characters I wouldn’t write or think about normally (pale shade hellow?), and got out ideas I wouldn’t normally write, or others who would’ve died as drafts (recycling king) ...overall Im content with about 2/3rds of the story which is a good amount, I think  
> I do feel a bit regretful I didn’t write a proper gael piece, or theres nothing sekiro, LOL, I would added added sekiro, but brain no juice + it would’ve just been Genichiro brainworms 
> 
> anyway, thank you all for your kind comments and encouragement! not gonna lie, they were quite a morale boost and I looked forward to seeing if any ;3c (especially those who commented frequently--
> 
> and whats next? Well, I got a few dark souls drafts, a sekiro draft, the isekai au to finish (opsie, lol) and most importantly, this bb series I have planned that’s canon exploration ehe--  
> who knows, maybe soulstober2021 too—I wrote 35k which which is like. 70% of naniwrimo LOL,


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